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DRE CALHOLIC.}TRADITION 
IN 
ENGLISH LITERATURE 


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The Catholic Tradition | 
in 
English Literature 





Edited by 
George Carver 


Assistant Professor of English, 
The University of 
Pittsburgh 












Garden City New York 
Doubleday, Page & Company 
1926 






Nihil obstat 
Rey. Artuur J. Scanian, 8. T. D. 
Censor Librorum 


Imprimatur 
hi «Patrick CARDINAL Hayes 
Archbishop, New York 


New York, June 4, 1926 


COPYRIGHT, 1926, BY DOUBLEDAY, PAGE 
& COMPANY. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. 
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES AT THE 
COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y. 


AO 
MARY BRADLEY SCHULTZ 


A DOER 
NOT A HEARER ONLY 


i 1 et ‘dt i 


oy uM ele dees 





PREFACE 


: HE present collection has but one purpose: to put before the 
| exe in convenient form something of the tradition for 

which Catholic literature in English stands, in order that 
he may, by learning to know it the better, be the more able in his 
pursuit of “the Way, the Truth, and the Life.” 

Naturally, to undertake a work of this sort is to incur deep 
and lasting obligation; I am, therefore, glad to be able to set 
down here the acknowledgment of my gratitude to Mr. J. Howard 
Dice, Librarian of the University of Pittsburgh, for his kind as- 
sistance in obtaining books which otherwise I should not have 
been able to consult, and, likewise, to record my indebtedness to 
a host of critical and reference works, chief among which may be 
mentioned: the Catholic Encyclopedia, Chambers’s Cyclopaedia 
of English Literature, Cambridge History of English Literature, 
Dictionary of National Biography, Garnett’s English Literature, 
Brégy’s The Poet’s Chantry and Poets and Pilgrims, Shuster’s 
Catholic Spirit in Modern English Literature, Kilmer’s Dreams 
and Images, Leslie’s Anthology of Catholic Poets, Hill’s British 
Catholic Poets, and Schelling’s Elizabethan Lyrics. 

ts 
ST. PHILOMENA’S ParisH 
PITTSBURGH, PENNSYLVANIA 
THE Eve or PENTECOST, 1926 


Vii 





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ve 


ae 


CONTENTS 


GEOFFREY CHAUCER 
The Canterbury Tales: The Seconde Nonnes Tale . 


Joun LypcGaTE 


The Child Jesus to Mary the Rose 


THOMAS OCCLEVE 
Tributes of Honour to Chaucer 


Tuomas MALory 


Le Morte D’Arthur. 


Rospert HENRYSON 
The Bloody Sark 


Witi1amM DunBarR 

The Merle and the Nightingale 
STEPHEN Hawes 

The Example of Virtue: Dame Nature Speaketh 

The Excusation of the Auctor. 

Tuomas More 

Utopia: Of Sciences, Craftes and Occupations . 

A Dialogue of Comfort Against Tribulation: That the 


Coumfort devised by all the olde paynem phyloso- 
phers wer unsufficient, and the cause wherefore . 





Everyman 


RogpertT SOUTHWELL 
Mary Magdalen’s Complaint at Christ’s Death. 
Times Go By Turns. RS SRE 
Look Home . , 
Fortune’s Falsehood 
A Child My Choice 
Life Is But Loss 


PAGE 


si CONTENTS 


Rospert SOUTHWELL (Continued) 
What Joy to Live 
The Burning Babe . 
The Nativity of Christ . 
Christ’s Childhood . 
Of the Blessed Sacrament of i ite 
The Death of Our Lady 
Henry CONSTABLE 
To the Blessed Sacrament . 
To Our Blessed Lady 
EpmMunpD BOLTON 
A Palinode 
Puitip MASsINGER 
The Virgin-Martyr Act I, Scene 1 
{AMES SHIRLEY 
Song . 
Victor-Victim 
WiLi1AM HaBINGTON 
A Dialogue Between Hope and Fear . 


To Cupid: Upon a Dimple in Castara’s Chee 
Upon Cupid’s Death and Burial in Castara’s Cheek 


The Description of Castara 
To Castara Praying 

Non Nobis Domine . 
Nox Nocti Indicat Scientiam . 


WILLIAM DAVENANT 
Praise 
Song . 


RICHARD CRASHAW 


To the Name Above Every Name, The Name of Jesus. 


NEWRY Cals ayvecs 
Dies Ire, Dies Illa . 


Saint Mary Magdalene, or The Weeper 


A Hymn to Saint Teresa 


PAGE 


CONTENTS 
RicHarD CrasHAw (Continued) 
The Flaming Heart . Ramey ihe 
Steps to the Temple: Upon Easter Day 
Joun Drypen 
From The Hind and the Panther . Sah 
Britannia Rediviva: A Poem on the Birth of antes 


Prince of Wales (The Pretender) 
A Song for St. Cecilia’s Day 


ALEXANDER POPE 
Messiah . 
Ode on St. Chaitin’ S ‘Dee 
Ode: The Dying Christian to His Soul 
The Universal Prayer . 
From An Essay on Man 


Joun Lincarp 


From History of England: Mary . 


Tuomas Moore 
Oh, Teach Me to Love Thee . 
A Canadian Boat Song . . 
The Turf Shall Be My ee Shane 
The Bird, Let Loose : 
Those Evening Bells 


Micuaer and Joun Banim 
The Stolen Sheep 


KeNELM Henry DicsBy 
The Broad Stone of Honour 


Joun Henry NEWMAN 
Valentine to a Little Girl . 
My Lady Nature and Her Davehers 
Sensitiveness Res aat \s eart hh cae 
Humiliation . : 
The Queen of saa : 
Home pre 


175 


188 
189 
189 
1gO 
IgI 


192 
205 


211 
212 
215 
O15 
216 
217 


Xii CONTENTS 


Joun Henry Newman (Continued) 

Waiting for the Morning 

Hora Novissima 

Lucis Creator Optime . 

The Pillar of the Cloud. 

Apologia Pro Vita Sua... 

Historical Sketches: Abelard 

The Idea of a University: Literature 
NicHOLAs WISEMAN 

Fabiola: A Talk With the Reader 
James CLARENCE MANGAN 

My Dark Rosaleen . 

The Geraldine’s Daughter . 

BilensBawrnu eee 

The Woman of Three Gone 


Francis SYLVESTER MAHONY 
The Mistletoe 
The Shandon Bells . 


WILLIAM ULLATHORNE 


Autobiography: Arrival at Sydney 


Henry Epwarp MANNING 
Gossip 


AuBrey De VERE 
Fioretti Di S. Francesco: Saint Francis and Perfect Joy 
Human Life ee di 
Cardinal Manning . 
Ode to Jerusalem 
Saint Peter . 


FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER 
Hope 
The Holy Apeela 
Two Faiths . 
The Easter Guest 
The Right Must Win 


PAGE 


218 
218 
219 
220 
220 
291 
238 


252 


258 
260 
261 
262 


264 
267 


269 
285 


289 
293 
293 
294 
296 


297 
298 
300 
300 
302 


CONTENTS 


CovENTRY PATMORE 


Love and Poetry 
Wind and Wave 
The Toys 

Love Serviceable 
The Queen 
If I Were Dead . 
To the Body 
Wisdom . 


ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER 
A Legend 

Cleansing Fires . 
Thankfulness. : 
A Legend of Provence . 
Kyrie Eleison 

Our Daily Bread 


Justin McCartuy 


Portraits of the Sixties: The Brothers Newman. 


James RypDER RANDALL 
Maryland, My Maryland . 
Why the Robin’s Breast Is Red 
Resurgam Spe ER Mabuhay ir 
Peace to the Dead . 


ABRAM J. Ryan 


Song of the Mystic . : 
March of the Deathless Dede 
In Memoriam 

My Beads 

A Legend 

The Conquered Banner. 


WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT 


Sancho Sanchez . 
On the Way to Church 
How Shall I Build? 


Xii1 


395 
308 
3°9 
310 
311 
312 
312 
314 


316 
317 
317 
318 
327 
329 


I 


330 
338 
339 
340 


342 
344 
345 
349 
349 
B51 


oat 
358 
359 


ne CONTENTS 


Joun LancasTER SPALDING 
Books 
CHARLES WARREN STODDARD 
Ave Marie Bells 
Stigmata... 
The Bells of San @iye 
GERARD Maney HopkIns 
The Starlight Night 
The Habit of Perfection 
Spring : 
Barnfloor and Winenress 
Heaven Haven . 
Rosa Mystica 
JoHN BanisTER TABB 
My Neighbor 
The Birthday 
The Good Thief . 
Avice MEYNELL 
“T Am the Way” 
Christ in the Universe . 
Renouncement 
The Crucifixion . 
Maurice Francis EGAN 
The Soul of Maginnis 
FRANCIS THOMPSON 
To My Godchild Francis M. W. M. 
Pitticslesus 7. 
The Hound of Hoe ; 
To the Dead Cardinal of iieratineios 
A Corymbus for Autumn . 
The Dread of Height 


Louise IMocEeN GUINEY 
The Kings 
Five Carols for Gre tnsecaee 


PAGE 


360 


384 
385 
386 


BAER, 


389 
390 
39° 
391 
392 


394 
394 
325 


395 
396 
397 
397 


398 


407 
409 
410 
417 
421 
424 


427 
429 


CONTENTS 


Louis IMocen GuINEY (Continued) 
The Wild Ride | Lome 
Saint Francis Endeth His Sermon 
Summum Bonum 

ERNEST CHRISTOPHER Dowson 
Nuns of the Perpetual Adoration . 
Extreme Unction 
Carthusians . 

Breton Afternoon 
Impenitentia Ultima 
Benedictio Domini . 

LIONEL JOHNSON 

Our Lady of the May . 
To Morfydd Dead . 
The Darkness 
Christmas : 

Before the Cloister . 

Joyce KILMER 
The Day After Christmas . 

Main Street . ra 
Trees . 


Index to Authors, Titles, and First Lines of Poems . 


XV 


432 
433 
434 


435 
436 
436 
438 
438 
439 


440 
442 
444 
445 
450 


451 
457 
458 
461 









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THE CATHOLIC TRADITION 
IN 
ENGDISHGDL ERE RAL URE 


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THE CATHOLIC TRADITION 
IN ENGLISH LITERATURE 


Gab OF eR EG Ye? GivAl Ui GBR 


Cc. 1340—-1 400 


Geoffrey Chaucer, soldier, government official, and the “father of 
modern English poetry,’ was born in London about 1340. When 
about eighteen years old he became attached to the household of the 
Duke of Clarence as a page. In 1359, however, he entered the 
service of Edward III and served during the French campaign of 
that year until taken prisoner, being finally ransomed by the king. 

From this time he remained more or less closely connected with 
the court until his death, serving upon diplomatic missions to Italy 
and France; acting as Comptroller of Customs of Wools, Skins, and 
Leather; sitting as Knight of the Shire for Kent in Parliament; and 
functioning as Clerk of the King’s Works and as Forester of North 
Petherington Park. Moreover, he was a pensioner of the crown 
during the reign of three successive monarchs. 

As a poet he is especially significant, not only as being the first 
Englishman to take place among world poets, but also as the writer 
who gave the first impetus toward the present status of the language, 
writing as he did in the dialect of the southeast Midlands, the source 
of our modern speech. 

The first of his work, naturally, was based upon French and Latin 
sources, those being the bases of the fourteenth-century learning. 
His early poems, then, were chiefly translations and adaptations, like 
the Romance of the Rose, the Death of Pity, the Compleynt of Mars, 
the Hymn to Our Blessed Lady, and the Book of the Duchess. By 
1383, however, having digested the Italian influence which had come 
to him during his diplomatic journeys to Italy—during the first, in 
1372, he is generally believed to have visited Petrarch and through 
him to have learned of Boccaccio, and Dante—he was ready to settle 
into what is commonly called his Italian period. During this time he 
wrote the Troilus and Criseyde, The House of Fame, The Parlia- 
ment of Fowls, and translated the Consolation of Philosophy of 
Boethius. 

In 1387 he is supposed to have begun The Canterbury Tales. This 


I 


oo 


2 GEOFFREY CHAUCER 


work, which, although Chaucer never completed it, is considered his 
masterpiece, marks him as a fully matured artist. In it he is still 
the adapter; the creative impulse has, however, now gained the 
ascendancy, and what lay ready to the hand of the adapter has been 
transmuted by his genius into something that must stand for all time 
as the beginning of English verse. For in The Canterbury Tales, 
Chaucer is entirely English. ‘The French and Latin influences of his 
early days are present, as is likewise the Italian of the later period, 
but welding them all together, permeating them, and weaving the 
whole into a compact unity is that same spirit that has made English 
poetry the finest in any literature. 

The Legend of Good Women also belongs to this time. But after 
these two pieces, representative as they are of the poet’s best work, he 
produced very little, only four poems being definitely known as be- 
longing to his last years: Envoy to Scogin, Compleynt of Venus, 
Envoy a Bukton, and the Compleynt to His Purse. 


From THE CANTERBURY TALES 
THE SECONDE NONNES TALE 


Tuis mayden, bright Cecilie, as hir lyf seith, 

Was comen of Romayns, and of noble kinde,! 

And from hir cradel up fostred in the feith 

Of Crist, and bar his gospel in hir minde; 

She never cessed, as I writen finde, 5 
Of hir preyere, and god to love and drede, 

Biseking him to kepe hir maydenhede. 


And when this mayden sholde unto a man 

Y-wedded be, that was ful yong of age, 

Which that y-cleped was Valerian, 10 
And day was comen of hir mariage, | 
She, ful devout and humble in hir corage, 

Under hir robe of gold, that sat ful fayre, 

Had next hir flesh y-clad hir in an heyre,? 


And whyl the organs maden melodye, 15 
‘To god alone in herte thus sang she; 
‘O lord, my soule and eek my body gye® 





1Race. 2Garment of hair 3Control. 


THE CANTERBURY TALES 


Unwemmed,' lest that I confounded be:’ 
And, for his love that deyde upon a tree, 
Every seconde or thridde day she faste, 
Ay biddinge in hir orisons ful faste. 


Valerian gan faste unto hir swere, 

That for no cas, ne thing that mighte be, 

He sholde never-mo biwreyen® here; 

And thanne at erst to him thus seyde she, 

‘IT have an angel which that loveth me, 

That with greet love, wher-so I wake or slepe, 
Is redy ay my body for to kepe. 


And if that he may felen, out of drede, 

That ye me touche or love in vileinye, 

He right anon wol slee yow with the dede, 
And in your yowthe thus ye shulden dye; 
And if that ye in clene love me gye, 

He wol yow loven as me, for your clennesse, 
And shewen yow his joye and his brightness.’ 


Valerian, corrected as god wolde, 
Answerde agayn, ‘if I shal trusten thee, 
Lat me that angel see, and him biholde; 
And if that it a verray angel be, 

Than wol I doon as thou hast preyed me; 
And if thou love another man, for sothe 


Right with this swerd than wol I slee yow bothe.’ 


Cecile answerde anon right in this wyse, 

‘If that yow list,® the angel shul ye see, 

So that ye trowe on Crist and yow baptyse. 
Goth forth to Via Apia,’ quod she, 

“That fro this toun ne stant but myles three, 
And, to the povre folkes that ther dwelle, 
Sey hem right thus, as that I shal yow telle. 


‘Spotless. ’Betray. 6Please. 


20 


25 


30 


35 


40 


45 


7Part. 


GEOFFREY CHAUCER 


Telle hem that I, Cecile, yow to hem sente, 
To shewen yow the gode Urban the olde, 
For secree nedes and for good entente. 

And whan that ye seint Urban han biholde, 
Telle him the wordes whiche I to yow tolde; 
And whan that he hath purged yow fro sinne, 
Thanne shul ye see that angel, er ye twinne.”’ 


Valerian is to the place y-gon, 

And right as him was taught by his lerninge, 
He fond this holy olde Urban anon 

Among the seintes buriels® lotinge.® 

And he anon, with-outen taryinge, 

Dide his message; and whan that he it tolde, 
Urban for joye his hondes gan up holde. 


The teres from his yén leet he falle— 
‘Almighty lord, O Jesu Crist,’ quod he, 
‘Sower of chast conseil, herde of us alle, 
‘The fruit of thilke seed of chastitee 

‘That thou hast sowe in Cecile, tak to thee! 
Lo, lyk a bisy bee, with-outen gyle, 

Thee serveth ay thyn owene thral?° Cecile! 


For thilke spouse, that she took but now 
Ful lyk a fiers leoun, she sendeth here, 

As meke as ever was any lamb, to you!’ 

And with that worde, anon ther gan appere 
An old man, clad in whyte clothes clere, 


That hadde a book with lettre of golde in honde, 


And gan biforn Valerian to stonde. 


Valerian as deed fil doun for drede 


Whan he him saugh, and he up hente* him tho, 


And on his book right thus he gan to rede— 
‘Oo Lord, 00 feith, oo god with-outen mo, 
Oo Cristendom, and fader of alle also, 


8Catacombs. *Hiding. 10 Subject. 


50 


55 


60 


65 


70 


75 


80 


THE CANTERBURY TALES 5 


Aboven alle and over al everywhere’— 
Thise wordes al with gold y-writen were. 


When this was.rad, than seyde this olde man, 85 
‘Levestow”? this thing or no? sey ye or nay.’ 

‘I leve al this thing,’ quod Valerian, 

‘For sother thing than this, I dar wel say, 

Under the hevene no wight?® thinke may.’ 

Tho vanisshed th’olde man, he niste where, 90 
And pope Urban him cristened right there. 


Valerian goth hoom, and fint Cecilie 

With-inne his chambre with an angel stonde; 

This angel hadde of roses and of lilie 

Corones?* two, the which he bar in honde; 95 
And first to Cecile, as I understonde, 

He yaf*® that oon, and after gan he take 

That other to Valerian, hir make.'® 


“With body clene and with unwemmed thoght 

Kepeth ay wel thise corones,’ quod he; 100 
‘Fro Paradys to yow have I hem broght, 

Ne never-mo ne shal they roten be, 

Ne lese her sote'’ savour, trusteth me; 

Ne never wight shal seen hem with his yé, 

But he be chaast and hate vileinyé. 105 


And thou, Valerian, for thou so sone 

Assentedest to good conseil also, 

Sey what thee list, and thou shalt han thy bone.’3® 

‘I have a brother,’ quod Valerian tho, 

“That in this world I love no man so. 110 
I pray yow that my brother may han grace 

To knowe the trouthe, as I do in this place.’ 


2Desirest thou. 13Creature. M4Garlands. Gave, 1M ate, 
17S weet. 18Boon, 


«peng rec 


GEOFFREY CHAUCER 


The angel seyde, ‘god lyketh thy requeste, 
And bothe, with the palm of martirdom, 

Ye shullen come unto his blisful feste.’ 

And with that word Tiburce his brother com. 
And whan that he the savour undernom’?® 
Which that the roses and the lilies caste, 
With-inne his herte he gan to wondre faste, 


And seyde, ‘I wondre, this tyme of the yeer, 
Whennes that sote savour cometh so ~* 

Of rose and lilies that I smelle heer. 

For though I hadde hem in myn hondes two, 
‘The savour mighte in me no depper go. 
The sote smel that in myn herte I finde 
Hath chaunged me al in another kinde.’?° 


Valerian seyde, ‘two corones han we, 
Snow-whyte and rose-reed, that shynen clere, 
Whiche that thyn yén han no might to see; 
And so thou smellest hem thurgh my preyere, 
So shaltow seen hem, leve brother dere, 

If it so be thou wolt, withouten slouthe, 
Bileve aright and knowen verray trouthe.’ 


Tiburce answerde, ‘seistow this to me 

In soothnesse, or in dreem I herkne this?’ 

‘In dremes,’ quod Valerian, ‘han we be 

Unto this tyme, brother myn, y-wis. 

But now at erst in trouthe our dwelling is.’ 

‘How woostow”! this,’ quod Tiburce, ‘in what wyse?’ 
Quod Valerian, ‘that shal I thee devyse. 


The angel of god hath me the trouthe y-taught 
Which thou shalt seen, if that thou wolt reneye?? 
‘The ydoles?*® and be clene, and elles naught.’— 
And of the miracle of thise corones tweye 

Seint Ambrose in his preface list to seye; 


115 


I20 


125 


130 


135 


140 


145 


19Perceived. 20N ature. 21K nowest thou. 22R enounce. J dols. 


THE CANTERBURY TALES 7 


Solempnely this noble doctour dere 
Commendeth it, and seith in this manere: 


The palm of martirdom for to receyve, 

Seinte Cecile, fulfild of goddess yifte,?4 

The world and eek hir chambre gan she weyve,?5 150 
Witnes Tyburces and Valerians shrifte, 

To whiche god of his bountee wolde shifte 

Corones two of floures wel smellinge, 

And made his angel hem the corones bringe: 


The mayde hath broght thise men to blisse above; 155 
The world hath wist what it is worth, certeyn, 
Devocioun of chastitee to love.— 

Tho shewede him Cecile al open and pleyn 

That alle ydoles nis”® but a thing in veyn; 

For they been dombe, and therto they been deve,?? 160 
And charged him his ydoles for to leve. 


‘Who so that troweth nat this, a beste he is,’ 

Quod tho Tiburce, ‘if that I shal nat lye.’ 

And she gan kisse his brest, that herde this, 

And was ful glad he coude trouthe espye. 165 
“This day I take thee for myn allye,’ 

Seyde this blisful fayre mayde dere; 

And after that she seyde as ye may here: 


‘Lo, right so as the love of Crist,’ quod she, 

‘Made me thy brotheres wyf, right in that wyse 170 
Anon for myn allye heer take I thee, 

Sin that thou wolt thyn ydoles despyse. 

Go with thy brother now, and thee baptyse, 

And make thee clene; so that thou mowe biholde 

The angels face of which thy brother tolde.’ 175 





4Gift. %Give up. 26Are nothing. 27Deaf. 


GEOFFREY CHAUCER 


Tiburce answerde and seyde, ‘brother dere, 

First tel me whider I shal, and to what man?’ 

“To whom?’ quod he, ‘com forth with right good chere, 

I wol thee lede unto the pope Urban.’ 

‘Til Urban? brother myn Valerian,’ 180 
Quod tho Tiburce, ‘woltow me thider lede? 

Me thinketh that it were a wonder dede. 


Ne menestow nat Urban,’ quod he tho, . 

‘That is so ofte dampned?® to be deed, 

And woneth”® in halkes®® alwey to and fro, 185 
And dar nat ones putte forth his heed ? 

Men sholde him brennen in a fyr so reed 

If he were founde, or that men mighte him spye; 

And we also, to bere him companye— 


And whyI we seken thilke divinitee 190 
That is y-hid in hevene prively, 

Algate™ y-brend” in this world shul we be!’ 

To whom Cecile answerde boldely, 

‘Men mighten dreden wel and skilfully 

‘This lyf to lese, myn owene dere brother, 195 
If this were livinge only and non other. 


But ther is better lyf in other place, 

That never shal be lost, ne drede thee noght, 

Which goddes sone us tolde thurgh his grace; 

‘That fadres sone hath alle thinges wroght; 200 
And al that wroght is with a skilful thoght, 

‘The goost, that fro the fader gan procede, 

Hath sowled** hem, withouten any drede. 


By word and by miracle goddes sone, 

Whan he was in this world, declared here 205 
That ther was other lyf ther men may wone.’ 

To whom answerde Tiburce, ‘O suster dere, 

Ne seydestow right now in this manere, 


28Condemned. 29D welleth. 30Hiding-places. 31N evertheless. 
%Burned. 3K ndued with a soul, 


THE CANTERBURY TALES 9 


Ther nis but o god, lord in soothfastnesse ; 
And now of three how maystow bere witnesse ?’ 210 


“That shal I telle,’ quod she, ‘er I go. 

Right as a man hath sapiences*‘ three, 

Memorie, engyn,®® and intellect also, 

So, in o being of divinitee, 

Three persones may ther right wel be.’ 215 
Tho gan she him ful bisily to preche 

Of Cristes come and of his peynes teche, 


And many pointes of his passioun ; 

How goddes sone in this world was withholde, 

To doon mankinde pleyn remissioun, 220 
That was y-bounde in sinne and cares colde: 

Al this thing she unto Tiburce tolde. 

And after this Tiburce, in good entente, 

With Valerian to pope Urban he wente, 


That** thanked god; and with glad herte and light 225 
He cristned him, and made him in that place 

Parfit in his lerninge, goddes knight. 

And after this Tiburce gat swich grace, 

That every day he saugh, in tyme and space, 

The angel of god; and every maner bone 230 
‘That he god axed, it was sped ful sone. 


It were ful hard by ordre for to seyn 

How many wondres Jesus for hem wroghte; 

But atte laste, to tellen short and pleyn, 

The sergeants of the toun of Rome hem soghte, 235 
And hem biforn Almache the prefect broghte, 

Which hem apposed, and knew al hir entente, 

And to the image of Jupiter hem sente, 





*'Kinds of intelligence. 35S kill. That one, 


TO 


a 


37Strike. 38Registration clerk. 39Take away. 40Together. 


GEOFFREY CHAUCER 


And seyde, ‘who so wol nat sacrifyse, 

Swap*? of his heed, this is my sentence here.’ 
Anon thise martirs that I yow devyse, 

Oon Maximus, that was an officere 

Of the prefectes and his corniculere,*® 

Hem hente; and whan he forth the seintes ladde, 
Him-self he weep, for pitee that he hadde. 


When Maximus had herd the seintes lore, 

He gat him of the tormentoures leve, 

And ladde hem to his hous withoute more; 

And with hir preching, er that it wer eve, 

They gonnen fro the tormentours to reve,*® 
And fro Maxime, and fro his folk echone 

The false feith, to trowe in god allone. 


Cecilie cam, whan it was woxen night, 

With preestes that hem cristned alle y-fere ;*° 
And afterward, whan day was woxen light, 
Cecile hem seyde with a ful sobre chere, 
‘Now, Cristes owene knightes leve and dere, 
Caste alle awey the werkes of derknesse, 

And armeth yow in armure of brightnesse. 


Ye han for sothe y-doon a greet bataille, 

Your cours is doon, your feith han ye conserved, 
Goth to the corone of lyf that may nat faille; 
The rightful juge, which that ye han served, 
Shall yeve it yow, as ye han it deserved.’ 

And whan this thing was seyd as I devyse, 

Men ladde hem forth to doon the sacrifyse. 


But whan they weren to the place broght, 
To tellen shortly the conclusioun, 

They nolde encense ne sacrifice right noght, 
But on hir knees they setten hem adoun 
With humble herte and sad devocioun, 





240 


245 


250 


255 


260 


265 


270 


THE CANTERBURY TALES 11 


And losten bothe hir hedes in the place. 
Hir soules wenten to the king of grace. 


This Maximus, that saugh this thing bityde, 

With pitous teres tolde it anon-right, 275 
That he hir soules saugh to heven glyde 

With angels ful of cleernesse and of light, 

And with his word converted many a wight; 

For which Almachius dide him so to-bete*! 

With whippe of leed, til he his lyf gan lete.*? 280 


Cecile him took and buried him anoon 

By Tiburce and Valerian softely, 

Withinne hir burying-place, under the stoon. 

And after this Almachius hastily 

Bad his ministres fecchen openly 285 
Cecile, so that she mighte in his presence 

Doon sacrifyce, and Jupiter encense. 


But they, converted at hir wyse lore, 

Wepten ful sore, and yaven ful credence 

Unto hir word, and cryden more and more, 290 
‘Crist, goddes sone withouten difference, 

Is verray god, this is al our sentence, 

That hath so good a servant him to serve; 

This with 0 voys we trowen, thogh we sterve!’*® 


Almachius, that herde of this doinge, 295 
Bad fecchen Cecile, that he might hir see, 

And alderfirst,“ lo! this was his axinge, 

‘What maner womman artow?’ tho quod he. 

‘I am a gentil womman born,’ quod she. 

‘I axe thee,’ quod he, ‘thogh it thee greve, 300 
Of thy religioun and of thy bileve.’ 


“Beat. “Lose. 43Perish, “First of all. 


12 


GEOFFREY CHAUCER 


‘Ye han bigonne your question folily,’ 

Quod she, ‘that wolden two answeres conclude 
In oo demande; ye axed lewedly.’*° 

Almache answerde unto that similitude, 

‘Of whennes comth thyn answering so rude?’ 


‘Of whennes?’ quod she, whan that she was freyned,*® 


‘Of conscience and of good feith unfeyned.’ 


Almachius seyde, ‘ne takestow non hede 

Of my power?’ and she answerde him this— 
‘Your might,’ quod she, ‘ful litel is to drede; 
For every mortal mannes power nis 

But lyk a bladdre, ful of wind, y-wis. 

For with a nedles poynt, whan it is blowe, 
May al the boost of it be leyd ful lowe.’ 


‘Ful wrongfully bigonne thou,’ quod he, 
‘And yet in wrong is thy perseveraunce; 
Wostow nat how our mighty princes free 
Han thus comanded and maad ordinaunce, 
That every Cristen wight shal han penaunce 
But-if that he his Cristendom withseye, 
And goon al quit, if he wol it reneye? 


“Your princes erren, as your nobley dooth,’ 
Quod tho Cecile, ‘and with a wood4’ sentence 
Ye make us gilty, and it is nat sooth; 

For ye, that knowen wel our innocence, 

For as muche as we doon a reverence 

‘To Crist, and for we bere a Cristen name, 
Ye putte on us a cryme, and eek a blame. 


But we that knowen thilke name so 

For vertuous, we may it not withseye’ 
Almache answerde, ‘chees oon of thise two, 
Do sacrifyce, or Cristendom reneye, 

That thou mowe now escapen by that weye.’ 


5Foolishly. 46(uestioned. 4™Mad. 


305 


310 


315 


320 


325 


330 


THE CANTERBURY TALES 13 


At which the holy blisful fayre mayde 335 
Gan for to laughe, and to the juge seyde, 


‘O juge, confus in thy nycetee, 

Woltow that I reneye innocence, 

To make me a wikked wight?’ quod she; 

‘Lo! he dissimuleth here in audience, 340 
He stareth and woodeth in his advertence!’ 

To whom Almachius, ‘unsely*® wrecche, 

Ne woostow nat how far my might may strecche? 


Han noght our mighty princes to me yeven, 

Ye, bothe power and auctoritee 345 
To maken folk to dyen or to liven? 

Why spekestow so proudly than to me?’ 

‘I speke noght but stedfastly,’ quod she, 

‘Nat proudly, for I seye, as for my syde, 

We haten deedly thilke vyce of pryde. 350 


And if thou drede nat a sooth to here, 

Than wol I shewe al openly, by right, 

That thou hast maad a ful gret lesing here. 

Thou seyst, thy princes han thee yeven might 

Bothe for to sleen and for to quiken*® a wight; 355 
Thou, that ne mayst but only lyf bireve, 

Thou hast non other power ne no leve! 


But thou mayst seyn, thy princes han thee maked 

Ministre of deeth; for if thou speke of mo, 

Thou lyest, for thy power is ful naked.’ 360 
‘Do wey thy boldnes,’ seyde Almachius tho, 

‘And sacrifice to our goddes, er thou go; 

I recche nat what wrong that thou me profre, 

For I can suffre it as a philosophre; 





“Unhappy. 49Spare. 


14 


GEOFFREY CHAUCER 


But thilke wrongs may I nat endure 

That thou spekest of our goddes here,’ quod he. 
Cecile answerede, ‘O nyce creature, 

‘Thou seydest no word sin thou spak to me 
That I ne knew therwith thy nycetee; 

And that thou were, in every maner wyse, 

A lewed officer and a veyn justyse. 


Ther lakketh no-thing to thyn utter yén®° 

That thou nart blind, for thing that we seen alle 
That it is stoon, that men may wel espyen, 
That ilke stoon a god thou wolt it calle. 

I rede thee, lat thyn hand upon it falle, 

And taste it wel, and stoon thou shalt it finde, 
Sin that thou seest nat with thyn yén blinde. 


It is a shame that the peple shal 

So scorne thee, and laughe at thy folye; 

For comunly men woot it wel overal,®* 

That mighty god is in his hevenes hye, 

And thise images, wel thou mayst espye, 

To thee ne to hem-self mowe nought profyte, 
For in effect they been nat worth a myte.’ 


Thise wordes and swiche othere seyde she, 

And he weex wroth, and bad men sholde hir lede 
Hom til hir hous, ‘and in hir hous,’ quod he, 
“Brenne hir right in a bath of flambes rede.’ 

And as he bad, right.so was doon in dede; 

For in a bath they gonne hir faste shetten,®* 

And night and day greet fyr they under betten. 


The longe night and eek a day also, 
For al the fyr and eek the bathes hete, 
She sat al cold, and felede no wo, 

It made hir nat a drope for to swete. 
But in that bath hir lyf she moste lete; 


50K yes. 51K verywhere. s2Shut. 


365 


370 


375 


380 


385 


390 


395 


THE CANTERBURY TALES 15 


For he, Almachius, with ful wikke entente 
To sleen hir in the bath his sonde®® sente. 


Three strokes in the nekke he smoot hir tho, 400 
The tormentour, but for no maner chaunce 

He mighte noght smyte al hir nekke a-two; 

And for ther was that tyme an ordinaunce, 

‘That no man sholde doon man swich penaunce 

The ferthe strook to smyten, softe or sore, 405 
This tormentour ne dorste do na-more. 


But half-deed, with hir nekke y-corven there, 

He lefte hir lye, and on his wey is went. 

The Cristen folk, which that aboute hir were, 

With shetes han the blood ful faire y-hent.°* 410 
Three dayes lived she in this torment, 

And never cessed hem the feith to teche; 

That she hadde fostred, hem she gan to preche; 


And hem she yaf hir moebles®® and hir thing, 

And to the pope Urban bitook hem tho, 415 
And seyde, ‘I axed this at hevene king, 

To han respyt three dayes and na-mo, 

To recomende to yow, er that I go, 

Thise soules, lo! and that I mighte do werche*® 

Here of myn hous perpetuelly a cherche.’ 


Seint Urban, with his deknes,*” prively 

The body fette, and buried it by nighte 

Among his othere seintes honestly. 

Hir hous the chirche of seint Cecilie highte,®® 

Seint Urban halwed it, as he well mighte; 425 
In which, into this day, in noble wyse, 

Men doon to Crist and to his seint servyse. 


53M essage. “Staunched. 5Furniture. Make. 57 Deacons. 
38Was called. 


16 THOMAS OCCLEVE 


THOM ASt OGG Ev Ee 
c. 1368—1450 


Thomas Occleve, government clerk and poet, was born about 1368. 
Nothing definite is as yet known concerning his parentage or the 
place of his birth. ‘What little has come to light about him is to be 
gleaned from his work. That he was a close follower of Chaucer 
and one of his ardent admirers is clear not only from the nature of 
his poetry but also from the fact that he left us the only Chaucer 
portrait that we possess. 

Although his work shows the Chaucerian influence, in the quality 
of his narrative art as well as in his poetic sense, Occleve never rose 
to the level established by his master. He cannot be numbered 
among the great ones of literature, although among his numerous 
writings there are a few worthy of preservation—as much, perhaps, 
because they reflect something of the temper of men’s minds in his 
day as that they show a not undistinguished poetical art in an un- 
poetic age. 

His principal work is the Regiment of Princes, a long poem upon 
the ways of wise government. 

The date of his death is generally believed to be 1450. 


TRIBUTES OF HONOUR TO CHAUCER 
I 


WITH heart as trembling as the leaf of asp, 
Father! syn that ye rede? to do so; 
Of my simple conceit will I the clasp 
Undo, and let it at his large? go! 
But, wellaway! so is mine hearte woe 5 
‘That the Honour of the English Tongue is dead; 
Of which I wont was have counsel and rede.® 


O, Master dear! and Father reverent! 
My Master, Chaucer! Flower of Eloquence! 

Mirrir of fructuous* entendement !® 10 
O, universal Father in science! 
Alas! that thou, thine excellent prudence, 


1Advise. Greatness. Advice. 4Fruitful. ’Perception 


TRIBUTES OF HONOUR TO CHAUCER 


In thy bed mortal, mightest nought bequeath! 
What ailed Death? Alas! why would he slay thee? 


O, Death! thou didst not harm singular,® 
In slaughter of him; but all this land it smarteth! 
But, natheless, yet hast thou no power 
His name slay! His high virtue astarteth,’ 
Unslain, from thee! which aye us lively hearteth 
With bookes of his ornate inditing, 
That are, to all this land enlumining. 


Hast thou not eke my Master, Gower, slain? 
Whose virtue I am insufficient 
For to descrive, I wot well in certain! 
For to slay all this World thou hast ymeant!® 
But syn our Lord Christ was obedient 
To thee, in faith! I can no further say! 
His creatures mosten® thee obey! 


II 


Simple is my ghost,?° and scarce my Literature, 
Unto your Excellence for to write 
Mine inward love; and yet in adventure 
Will I me put, though I can but lyte. 
My deare Master (God his soule quite!”) 
And Father, Chaucer, fain would have me taught; 
But I was dull, and learned lyte or naught! 


Alas! my worthy Master honourable! 
This land’s very Treasure and Richesse! 
Death, by thy death, hath harm irreparable 
Unto us done! Her vengeable” duress” 
Despoiled hath this land of the sweetness 


Of Rhetoric: for unto Tullius 
Was never man so like amongst us! 


1] 


15 


20 


25 


30 


oe, 


40 


- Individually. 7Escapes. 8Intended. *Must. 10S pirit. 
UR equite. 2Vengeful. 183Hardship. 


18 


THOMAS OCCLEVE 


Also, who was higher in Philosophy 
To Aristotle, in our tongue, but thou? 
The steppes” of Virgil in Poesy 
Thou followed’st eke, men wot well enow! 
That Cumber-world, that thee, my Master! slew, 
Would I slain were! Death was too hasty 
To run on thee, and ’reave thee thy life! 


Death hath but small consideration 
Unto the Virtuous, I have espied! 
No more, as sheweth the probation, 
‘Than to a vicious master Losel tried! 
Among a heap, every man is mastered 
With her, as well the poor as is the rich! 
Learned and lewd*® eke standen all alike! 


She might have tarried her vengeance a while, 
Till that some man had equal to thee be! 
Nay! let be that! She knew well that this Isle 
May never man forth bringe like to thee! 
And her office needes do must she! 
God bade her so! I trust as for the best! 
O, Master! Master! God, thy soul rest! 


Ill 


The first Finder of our fair language 
Hath said, in case semblable,!* and others mo, 
So highly well, that it is my dotage 
For to express, or to touch any of tho!!” 
Alas! My Father from the world is go! 
Alas! My worthy Master, Chaucer! him I mean. 
Be thou advocate for him, Heaven’s Queen! 


As thou well know’st, O, Blessed Virgin! 
With loving heart and high devotion, 
In thine honour, he wrote full many a line! 
O, now, thine help and thy promotion 
To God thy Sonne, make a motion, 


4Foot prints. Ignorant. ‘Similar. Those. 


45 


50 


55 


60 


65 


70 


75 


TRIBUTES OF HONOUR TO CHAUCER 19 


How he thy Servant was, Maiden Mary! 
And let his soule flower and fructify! 


Although his life be quenched, the resemblance 
Of him hath in me so fresh liveliness 
That, to put other men in remembrance 80 
Of his person, I have here hes likeness 
Do make; to this end, in soothfastness, 
That they, that have of him least thought and mind, 
By this painture,‘® may again him find. 


[Here occurs, in the margin, Occleve’s celebrated coloured 
portrait of Geoffrey Chaucer. | 


TORN YD Gall E 


c. 1370—c. 1450 


John Lydgate, priest and poet, was born in Suffolk about 1370. 
Very little is actually known concerning him. He is supposed to 
have received his early education at the hands of the Benedictines and 
later to have attended both Oxford and Cambridge. He was 
ordained priest in 1397 and opened a school in the monastery at Bury. 
In 1423 he became prior at Hatfield Broadoak, but his interest lay 
more in poetry than in the duties of his office. In 1434 he returned 
to Bury, where it is assumed that he remained until his death about 
1450. 

Lydgate was not a great poet; following the death of Chaucer there 
set in a period which was hardly conducive to the composition of 
great poetry. What he lacks in quality, however, he makes up in 
sheer bulk, writing in all some 250 poems, the most noteworthy among 
them being the Troy Book, the Falls of Princes, the Life of Our 
Lady, and the Dance of Death. All these are somewhat tedious in 
style and of considerable length. He wrote, however, a number of 
short devotional pieces, many of which are not without merit. 

Not a few of Lydgate’s poems have been lost; several remain as 
yet in manuscript form. Perhaps if we could examine everything 
he wrote, we should find something else comparable to The Child 
Jesus to Mary the Rose, for the discovery of which not only scholars 
but lovers of Catholic verse as well are indebted to Dr. Henry Noble 
MacCracken, President of Vassar College. 


Painting. 


20 THOMAS MALORY 


THE CHILD JESUS TO MARY THE ROSE 


My Faper above, beholdying the mekenesse, 
As dewe on rosis doth his baumet? sprede, 
Sendith his Gost, most sovereyne of clennesse, 
Into thy breste, A! Rose of Womanhede! 
When I for man was born in manhede, 

For which, with rosis of heavenly influence 

I me rejoyse to play in thy presence. 

O Moder! Moder! of mercy most habounde, 
Fayrest moder that ever was alyve, 

Though I for men have many a bloody wounde, 
Among theym alle there be rosis fyve, 
Agayne” whos mercy fiendis may not stryve’, 
Mankynde to save, best rosis of defence, 

When they me pray for helpe in thy presence. 


DHOOM AS i NMCAIAO RY 


c. 1400—1471 


Sir Thomas Malory, soldier, member of Parliament, outlaw, and 
author, is supposed to have been born in Warwickshire about 1400. 
What little is known of his career is based chiefly upon speculation. 
He is judged, however, to have been present at the siege of Rouen, 
in 1418; to have been a retainer of Richard Beauchamp, Earl of 
Warwick, known as the King-maker; to have sat for his county in 
Parliament during 1444-45; to have been a loyalist during the Civil 
Wars, to have been outlawed by Edward IV in 1468, when the York 
party triumphed; and to have died in 1471. 

His book, Le Morte D’ Arthur, according to Caxton, the first Eng- 
lish printer, who edited and printed it, was a compilation of many 
French books which, although they all dealt with the same general 
material, told no consistent story. Malory, however, so skillfully 
wove together the various elements that the work represents for us 
the highest ideals of selflessness, justice, and purity as practised dur- 
ing the age of chivalry. 


‘Balm. Against. *Oppose. 


LE MORTE D’ARTHUR 21 


From LE MORTE D’ARTHUR 
CHAPTER XVIII 


How Galahad came to king Mordrains, and of other matters and 
adventures. 


b in saith the story that Galahad rode many journeys 
in vain. And at the last he came to the abbey where 
king Mordrains was, and when he heard that, he thought 

he would abide to see him. And upon the morn, when he had 

heard mass, Galahad came unto king Mordrains, and anon the 
king saw him, the which had lain blind of long time. And then 
he dressed him against him, and said, Galahad, the servant of 

Jesu Christ, whose coming I have abiden so long, now embrace 

me, and let me rest on thy breast, so that I may rest between thine 

arms, for thou art a clean virgin above all knights, as the flower 
of the lily, in whom virginity is signified, and thou art the rose, 
the which is the flower of all good virtue, and in colour of fire. 

For the fire of the Holy Ghost is taken so in thee, that my flesh, 

which was all dead of oldness, is become young again. When 

Galahad heard his words, then he embraced him and all his body. 

Then said he, Fair Lord Jesu Christ, now I have my will, now I 

require thee in this point that I am in, thou come and visit me. 

And anon our Lord heard his prayer. “Therewith the soul de- 

parted from the body. And then Galahad put him in the earth 

as a king ought to be: and so departed, and came into a perilous 
forest, where he found the well the which boiled with great waves, 
as the tale telleth tofore. And as soon as Galahad set his hand 
thereto it ceased, so that it burnt no more, and the heat departed: 
for that it burnt it was a sign of lust; but that heat might not 
abide his pure virginity. And this was taken in the country for a 
miracle, and so ever after was it called Galahad’s well. “Then by 
adventure he came into the country of Gore, and into the abbey 
where Sir Launcelot had been toforehand, and found the tomb of 
king Bagdemagus (but was founder thereof Joseph of Armathie’s 
son) and the tomb of Simeon where Launcelot had failed. Then 
he looked into a croft under the minster, and there he saw a tomb 
which burnt full marvellously. Then asked he the brethren what 
it was? Sir, said they, a marvellous adventure that may not be 


22 THOMAS MALORY 


brought unto none end, but by him that passeth of bounty and of 
knighthood all them of the Round Table. I would, said Gala- 
had, that ye would lead me thereto. Gladly, said they: and so 
led him till a cave; and he went down upon steps and came nigh 
the tomb, and then the flaming failed and the fire staunched, the 
which many a day had been great. Then came there a voice that 
said, Much are ye beholden to thank our Lord, the which hath 
given you a good hour, that ye may draw out the souls of earthly 
pain, and to put them into the joys of paradise. I am of your 
kindred, the which have dwelled in this heat this three hundred 
winter and four and fifty, to be purged of the sin that I did against 
Joseph of Armathie. Then Galahad took the body in his arms, 
and bear it into the minster. And that night lay Galahad in the 
abbey: and on the morn he gave him service, and put him in the 
earth, afore the high altar. 


CHAPTER XIX 


How Sir Percivale and Sir Bors met with Sir Galahad, and how they 
came to the castle of Carbonek, and other matters. 


So departed he from thence, and commended the brethren to 
God. And so he rode five days till that he came to the maimed 
king, and ever followed Percivale the five days, asking where he 
had been, and so one told him how the adventures of Logris were 
achieved. So on a day it befell that they came out of a great 
forest, and there they met at travers with Sir Bors, the which rode 
alone. It is no need to tell if they were glad, and them he 
saluted, and they yielded him honour and good adventure; and 
every each told other. ‘Then said Bors, It is more than a year 
and a half that I ne lay ten times where men dwelled, but in wild 
forests and in mountains, but God was ever my comfort. 

‘Then rode they a great while till that they came to the castle 
of Carbonek. And when they were entered within the castle 
king Pelles knew them. ‘Then there was great joy, for they wist 
well by their coming that they had fulfilled the quest of the 
Sancgreal. Then Eliazar, king Pelles’ son, brought afore them 
the broken sword wherewith Joseph was stricken through the 
thigh. Then Bors set his hand thereto, if he might have soldered 
it again, but it would not be, Then he took it to Percivale, but he 


LE MORTE D’ARTHUR 23 


had no more power thereto than he. Now have ye it again, said 
Percivale to Galahad, for and it be ever achieved by one bodily 
man, ye must do it. And then took he the pieces and set them 
together, and they seemed that they had never been broken, and 
as well as it had been first forged. And when they within espied 
that the adventure of the sword was achieved, then they gave the 
sword to Bors, for it might not be better set, for he was a good 
knight, and a worthy man. And a little afore even the sword 
arose great and marvellous, and was full of great heat, that many 
men fell for dread. And anon alight a voice among them, and 
said, They that ought not to sit at the table of Jesu Christ arise, 
for now shall very knights be fed. So they went thence all save 
king Pelles and Eliazar his son, the which were holy men, and a 
maid which was his niece. And so these three fellows and they 
three were there; no more. Anon they saw knights all armed 
come in at the hall door, and did off their helms and their arms, 
and said unto Galahad, Sir, we have hied right much for to be 
with you at this table, where the holy meat shall be parted. Then 
said he, Ye be welcome: but of whence be ye? So three of them 
said they were of Gaul, and other three said they were of Ireland, 
and the other three said they were of Denmark. So as they sat 
thus, there came out a bed of tree of a chamber, the which four 
gentlewomen brought, and in the bed lay a good man sick, and a 
crown of gold upon his head; and there in the midst of the place 
they set him down, and went again their way. ‘Then he lift up 
his head and said, Galahad, knight, ye be welcome, for much have 
I desired your coming, for in such pain and in such anguish I 
have been long. But now I trust to God the term is come that 
my pain shall be allayed, that I shall pass out of this world, so as 
it was promised me long ago. “herewith a voice said, There be 
two among you that be not in the quest of the Sancgreal, and 
therefore depart ye. 


CHAPTER XX 


How Galahad and his fellows were fed of the holy Sancgreal, and 
how our Lord appeared to them, and other things. 


THEN king Pelles and his son departed. And therewithal 
beseemed them that there came a man and four angels from heaven, 


24 THOMAS MALORY 


clothed in likeness of a bishop, and had a cross in his hand, and 
these four angels bare him up in a chair, and set him down before 
the table of silver whereupon the Sancgreal was, and it seemed 
that he had in midst of his forehead letters that said, See ye here 
Joseph the first bishop of Christendom, the same which our Lord 
succoured in the city of Sarras, in the spiritual place. ‘Then the 
knights marvelled, for that bishop was dead more than three hun- 
dred year tofore. Oh knights, said he, marvel not, for I was 
sometime an earthly man. With that they heard the chamber 
door open, and there they saw angels, and two bare candles of 
wax, and the third a towel, and the fourth a spear which bled 
marvellously, that three drops fell within a box which he held 
with his other hand. And they set the candles upon the table, 
and the third the towel upon the vessel, and the fourth the holy 
spear even upright upon the vessel. And then the bishop made 
semblant as though he would have gone to the sacring of the mass. 
And then he took an ubbly, which was made in likeness of bread; 
and at the lifting up there came a figure in likeness of a child, and 
the visage was as red and as bright as any fire, and smote himself 
into the bread, so that they all saw it, that the bread was formed of 
a fleshly man, and then he put it into the holy vessel again. And 
then he did that longed to a priest to do to a mass. And then he 
went to Galahad and kissed him, and bad him go and kiss his 
fellows, and so he did anon. Now, said he, servants of Jesu 
Christ, ye shall be fed afore this table with sweet meats, that 
never knights tasted. And when he had said, he vanished away; 
and they set them at the table in great dread, and made their 
prayers. “Then looked they, and saw a man come out of the holy 
vessel, that had all the signs of the passion of Jesu Christ, bleeding 
all openly, and said, My knights and my servants and my true 
children, which be come out of deadly life into spiritual life, I will 
now no longer hide me from you, but ye shall see now a part of 
my secrets and of my hid things: now hold and receive the high 
meat which ye have so much desired. “Then took he himself the 
holy vessel, and came to Galahad, and he kneeled down and there 
he received his Saviour, and after him so received all his fellows, 
and they thought it so sweet that it was marvellous to tell. Then 
said he to Galahad, Son, wotest thou what I hold betwixt my 
hands? Nay, said he, but if ye will tell me. This is, said he, 


LE MORTE D’ARTHUR 25 


the holy dish wherein I ate the lamb on Sher-thursday. And 
now hast thou seen that thou most desiredst to see, but yet hast 
thou not seen it so openly as thou shalt see it in the ciy of Sarras, 
in the spiritual place. Therefore thou must go hence, and bear 
with thee this holy vessel, for this night it shall depart from the 
realm of Logris, that it shall never be seen more here, and wotest 
thou wherefore? for he is not served nor worshipped to his right, 
by them of this land, for they be turned to evil living, therefore I 
shall disherit them of the honour which I have done them. And 
therefore go ye three to-morrow unto the sea, where ye shall find 
your ship ready, and with you take this sword with the strange 
girdles, and no more with you, but Sir Percivale and Sir Bors. 
Also I will that ye take with you of the blood of this spear, for to 
anoint the maimed king, both his legs and all his body, and he 
shall have his health. Sir, said Galahad, why shall not these 
other fellows go with us?—for this cause, for right as I departed 
mine apostles, one here and another there, so I will that ye depart. 
And two of you shall die in my service, but one of you shall come 
again, and tell tidings. Then gave he them his blessing and van- 
ished away. 


CHAPTER XXI 


How Galahad anointed with the blood of the spear the maimed king, 
and other adventures. 


Anp Galahad went anon to the spear which lay upon the table, 
and touched the blood with his fingers, and came after to the 
maimed king, and anointed his legs. And therewith he clothed 
him anon, and start upon his feet out of his bed as an whole man, 
and thanked our Lord that he had healed him. And that was 
not to the world-ward, for anon he yield him to a place of religion 
of white monks, and was a full holy man. That same night, about 
midnight came a voice among them, which said, My sons and not 
my chieftains, my friends and not my warriors, go ye hence, where 
ye hope best to do, and as I bad you.—Ah, thanked be thou, Lord, 
that thou wilt vouchsafe to call us thy sinners) Now may we 
well prove that we have not lost our pains. 

And anon in all haste they took their harness and departed. 
But the three knights of Gaul, one of them knight Claudine, king 


26 THOMAS MALORY 


Claudas’ son, and the other two were great gentlemen. “Then 
prayed Galahad to every each of them, that if they come to king 
Arthur’s court, that they should salute my lord Sir Launcelot my 
father, and of them of the Round Table, and prayed them if that 
they came on that part that they should not forget it. Right so 
departed Galahad, Percivale, and Bors with him. And so they 
rode three days, and then they came to a rivage, and found the 
ship whereof the tale speaketh of tofore. And when they came to 
the board, they found in the midst the table of silver which they 
had left with the maimed king, and the Sancgreal, which was cov- 
ered with red samite. ‘Then were they glad to have such things 
in their fellowship, and so they entered, and made great reverence 
thereto, and Galahad fell in his prayer long time to our Lord, that 
at what time he asked, that he should pass out of this world: so 
much he prayed, till a voice said to him, Galahad, thou shalt have 
thy request, and when thou askest the death of thy body thou 
shalt have it, and then shalt thou find the life of the soul. Per- 
civale heard this, and prayed him of fellowship that was between 
them, to tell him wherefore he asked such things. ‘That shall I 
tell you, said Galahad: the other day when we saw a part of the 
adventures of the Sancgreal, I was in such a joy of heart that I 
trow never man was that was earthly, and therefore I wot well 
when my body is dead my soul shall be in great joy to see the 
blessed Trinity every day, and the majesty of our Lord Jesu 
Christ. So long were they in the ship that they said to Galahad, 
Sir, in this bed ought ye to lie, for so saith the scripture. And so 
he laid him down and slept a great while. And when he awaked 
he looked afore him, and saw the city of Sarras. And as they 
would have landed, they saw the ship wherein Percivale had put 
his sister in. “Truly, said Percivale, in the name of God, well 
hath my sister holden us covenant. ‘Then took they out of the 
ship the table of silver, and he took it to Percivale and to Bors to 
go tofore, and Galahad came behind, and right so they went to the 
city, and at the gate of the city they saw an old man crooked. 
Then Galahad called him, and bad him help to bear this heavy 
thing. ‘Truly, said the old man, it is ten year ago that I might not 
go but with crutches. Care thou not, said Galahad, and arise up 
and shew thy good will. And so he assayed, and found himself 
as whole as ever he was. Then ran he to the table, and took one 


LE MORTE D’ARTHUR 27 


part against Galahad. And anon arose there great noise in the 
city, that a cripple was made whole by knights marvellous that en- 
tered into the city. Then anon after, the three knights went to 
the water, and brought up into the palace Percivale’s sister, and 
buried her as richly as a king’s daughter ought to be. And when 
the king of the city, which was cleped Estorause, saw the fellow- 
ship, he asked them of whence they were, and what thing it was 
that they had brought upon the table of silver. And they told him 
the truth of the Sancgreal, and the power which that God had set 
there. Then the king was a tyrant, and was come of the line of 
paynims, and took them, and put them in prison in a deep hole. 


CHAPTER OXIA 


How they were fed with the Sancgreal while they were in prison, and 
how Galahad was made king. 


BuT as soon as they were there, our Lord sent them the Sanc- 
greal, through whose grace they were alway fulfilled while that 
they were in prison. So at the year’s end it befell that this king 
Estorause lay sick, and felt that he should die. Then he sent for 
the three knights, and they came afore him, and he cried them 
mercy of that he had done to them, and they forgave it him goodly, 
and he died anon. When the king was dead, all the city was dis- 
mayed, and wist not who might be their king. Right so as they 
were in counsel, there came a voice among them, and bad them 
choose the youngest knight of them three to be their king, for he 
shall well maintain you and all yours. So they made Galahad 
king by all the assent of the whole city, and else they would have 
slain him. And when he was come to behold the land, he let 
make about the table of silver a chest of gold and of precious stones 
that covered the holy vessel, and every day early the three fellows 
would come afore it and make their prayers. Now at the year’s 
end, and the self day after Galahad had borne the crown of gold, 
he arose up early, and his fellows, and came to the palace, and 
saw tofore them the holy vessel, and a man kneeling on his knees, 
in likeness of a bishop, that had about him a great fellowship of 
angels, as it had been Jesu Christ himself. And then he arose and 
began a mass of Our Lady. And when he came to the sacrament 
of the mass, and had done, anon he called Galahad, and said to 


28 THOMAS MALORY 


him, Come forth, the servant of Jesu Christ, and thou shalt see 
that thou hast much desired to see. And then he began to tremble 
right hard, when the deadly flesh began to behold the spiritual 
things. Then he held up his hands toward heaven, and said, 
Lord, I thank thee, for now I see that that hath been my desire 
many a day. Now, blessed Lord, would I not longer live, if it 
might please thee Lord. And therewith the good man took our 
Lord’s body betwixt his hands, and proffered it to Galahad, and 
he received it right gladly and meekly. Now, wotest thou what 
I am? said the good man. Nay, said Galahad.—I am Joseph of 
Armathie, which our Lord hath sent here to thee to bear thee 
fellowship. And wotest thou wherefore that he hath sent me 
more than any other? For thou hast resembled me in two things, 
in that thou hast seen the marvels of the Sancgreal, and in that 
thou hast been a clean maiden, as I have been and am. And when 
he had said these words, Galahad went to Percivale and kissed 
him, and commended him to God. And so he went to Sir Bors 
and kissed him, and commended him to God, and said, Fair lord, 
salute me to my lord Sir Launcelot, my father, and as soon as ye 
see him bid him remember of this unstable world. And therewith 
he kneeled down tofore the table and made his prayers, and then 
suddenly his soul departed to Jesu Christ, and a great multitude 
of angels bare his soul up to heaven, that the two fellows might 
well behold it. Also the two fellows saw come from heaven an 
hand, but they saw not the body; and then it came right to the 
vessel, and took it and the spear, and so bare it up to heaven. 
Sithen was there never man so hardy to say that he had seen the 
Sancgreal. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


Of the sorrow that Percivale and Bors made when Galahad was 
dead; and of Percivale how he died, and other matters. 


WHEN Percivale and Bors saw Galahad dead, they made as 
much sorrow as ever did two men: and if they had not been good 
men they might lightly have fallen in despair. And the people 
of the country and of the city were right heavy. And then he 
was buried. And as soon as he was buried, Sir Percivale yielded 
him to an hermitage out of the city, and took a religious clothing; 
and Bors was always with him, but never changed he his secular 


LE MORTE D’ARTHUR 29 


clothing, for that he purposed to go again into the realm of Logris. 
Thus a year and two months lived Sir Percivale in the hermitage 
a fully holy life, and then passed out of this world. And Bors let 
bury him by his sister and by Galahad in the spiritualties. When 
Bors saw that he was in so far countries as in the parts of Baby- 
lon, he departed for Sarras, and armed him, and came to the sea, 
and entered into a ship, and so it befell him in good adventure he 
came into the realm of Logris. And he rode so fast till he came 
to Camelot where the king was. And then was there great joy 
made of him in the court, for they wend all he had been dead, 
forasmuch as he had been so long out of the country. And when 
they had eaten, the king made great clerks to come afore him, 
that they should chronicle of the high adventures of the good 
knights. When Bors had told him of the adventures of the 
Sancgreal, such as had befallen him and his three fellows, that 
was Launcelot, Percivale, Galahad and himself, then Launcelot 
told the adventures of the Sancgreal that he had seen. All this 
Was made in great books, and put in almeries at Salisbury. And 
anon Sir Bors said to Sir Launcelot, Galahad your own son 
saluted you by me, and after you king Arthur, and all the court, 
and so did Sir Percivale: for I buried them with mine own hands 
in the city of Sarras. Also, Sir Launcelot, Galahad prayeth you 
to remember of this uncertain world, as ye behight him when ye 
were together more than half a year. This is true, said Launcelot ; 
now I trust to God his prayer shall avail me. “Then Launcelot 
took Sir Bors in his arms, and said, Gentle cousin, ye are right 
welcome to me, and all that ever I may do for you and for yours, 
ye shall find my poor body ready at all times whiles the spirit is 
in it, and that I promise you faithfully, and never to fail. And 
wit ye well, gentle cousin Sir Bors, that ye and I will never depart 
in sunder whilst our lives may last. Sir, said he, I will as ye will. 


30 ROBERT HENRYSON 


ROBERT HENRYSON 


c. 1430—c. 1508 


Robert Henryson, teacher and poet, was born in Scotland about 
1430. Little or nothing is known of his life. It is supposed from 
certain references in his writing that he may have attended a conti- 
nental university, probably Paris or Louvain. Further, because the 
first issue of his Fables, dated 1570, shows its author to have been 
“Scholmaister of Dunfermline,” one assumes that he was a teacher. 
From other sources it is conjectured that he was in minor orders 
and that his teaching was done in the Benedictine school at Dunferm- 
line. 

As a poet he stands among the best of the followers of Chaucer. 
Among his chief poems are the Testament of Cresseid, Robene and 
Makyne, a collection of Fables from AXsop, and Orpheus and Eury- 
dice. 


THE BLOODY SARK? 


Tus hinder? year I have been told, 
‘There was a worthy King: 
Dukes, Earls, and Barons bold, 
He had at his bidding. 
The Lord was ancient and old, 5 
And sixty years could ring; 
He had a daughter, fair to fold,® 
A lusty Lady ying.‘ 


Of all fairhead,® she bore the flower; 
And eke her father’s heir: 10 
Of lusty laits* and high honour, 
Meek, bot,’ and debonair. 
She winnit® in a bigly® bower, 
On fold was‘ none so fair. 
Princes loved her, par amour, 15 
In countries oer everywhere. 


1Shirt. 2Last. 3Earth. “Young. ‘Beauty. 6‘Manners. 
7Sweet. 8D welt. Strong. 


THE BLOODY SARK 31 


There dwelt a lyte?® beside the King, 
A foul Giant of one; 
Stolen he has the Lady ying, 
Away with her is gone; 20 
And cast her in his dungeon, 
Where light she might see none. 
Hunger, and cold, and great thirsting, 
She found in to her waine.*? 


He was the loathliest on to look, 25 
That on the ground might gang; 
His nails were like an hellis-crook,?? 
Therewith five quarters long. 
There was none that he o’ertook, 
In right, or yet in wrong, 30 
But all in sunder he them shook! 
The Giant was so strong. 


He held the Lady, day and night, 
Within his deep dungeon. 
He would not give of her a sight, 35 
For gold, nor yet ransom; 
But if the King might get a Knight, 
To fight with his person, 
To fight with him, both day and night, 
Until one were dungin** down. 40 


The King gart'* seek, both far and near, 
Both by sea and land, 
Of any Knight, if he might hear, 
Would fight with that Giant. 
A worthy Prince, that had no peer, 45 
Has ta’en the deed in hand, 
For the love of the Lady clear ;*5 
And held full true cunnand.*® 


Littl. “Dwelling. Devil’s crook. Struck. “Made. Pure. 
1eCovenant. 


32 


17 A fter. 
2Before. 


ROBERT HENRYSON 


That Prince came proudly to the town, 
Of that Giant to hear: 

And fought with him, his own person, 
And took him prisoner; 

And cast him in his own dungeon 
Alone, withouten fere, 

With hunger, cold, and confusion, 
As full well worthy were. 


Syne!” brake the bour,!*® had home the Bright 


Unto her father dear. 

So evil wounded was the Knight, 
That he behoved to die. 

Unlovesome was his likame’® dight,?° 
His Sark was all bloody. 

In all the world was there no wight?! 
So piteous for to see! 


The Lady mourned; and made great moan, 
With all her mickle might. 

‘I loved never Love but one, 
That dolefully now is dight. 

GOD send my life were from me ta’en, 
Or?? I had seen yon sight! 

Or else in begging ever to go 
Forth with yon courteous Knight!’ 


He said, ‘Faire Lady! now mon? I 
Die; trestly** ye me trow! 

Take ye my Sark, that is bloody, 
And hang it forrow”® you! 

First think on it, and syne on me, 
When men come you to woo!’ 

The Lady said, ‘By Mary free! 
‘Thereto I make a vow!’ 


18Dungeon. Body. 20Become. 
Must. *4Trustfully. Before. 


50 


55 


60 


65 


70 


75 


80 


21Creature. 


Bondage. 


THE BLOODY SARK 


When that she looked on the Sark, 
She thought on the person; 

And prayed for him, with all her heart, 
That loosed her from bandon,”® 

Where she was wont to sit full merk?? 
In that deep dungeon: 

And ever, while she was in quert,?® 
‘That was (to) her a lesson. 


So well the Lady loved the Knight, 
That no man would she take! 

So should we do our God of might, 
That did all for us make! 

Which foully to death was dight, 
For sinful Man’s sake: 

So should we do, both day and night, 
With prayers to him make. 


Moralitas 


Tuis King is like the Trinity, 
Both in Heaven and here. 

The Man’s Soul, to the Lady. 
The Giant, to Lucifer. 

The Knight, to Christ, that died on tree, 
And coft?® our sinnes dear. 

The pit, to Hell, with paines fell :°° 
The sin, to the Wooer. 


The Lady was wooed ; but she said ‘Nay!’ 
With men that would her wed; 
So should we wryth*! all sin away, 
‘That in our breast is bred! 
I pray to Jesus Christ verray,*? 
For us his blood that bled, 
To be our help on Doomesday, 
Where laws are straitly led. 


27Dark. Safety. ?*Bought.  %Fierce. Put. 


33 


85 


gO 


95 


100 


105 


110 


2T rue, 


34 WILLIAM DUNBAR 


The Soul is God’s daughter dear, 
And eke his handiwork, 
That was betrayed by Lucifer, 115 
Who sits in Hell full merk: 
Borrowed with Christes angel clear, 
Hende®*? men! will ye not hark? 
For his love, that bought us dear, 
Think on the Bloody Sark! 120 


WILLIAM DUNBAR 


c. 1460—c. 1530 


William Dunbar, Franciscan novice, courtier, and poet, was born 
in Scotland about 1460. He attended St. Andrew’s University, being 
graduated in 1479. Soon after graduation he became a Franciscan 
novice and preached for a time in England and later in France. 

About 1490, however, he entered the service of James IV and was 
sent upon various embassies. So well did he carry out his commis- 
sions, as is evident from the court records, that he became a life pen- 
sioner of the crown. 

In 1503 he celebrated the marriage of James with Margaret of 
England in what is perhaps his best known poem, The Thistle and the 
Rose, Others of his poems are the Golden Targe and the Dance of 
the Seven Deadly Sins. As a whole his verse is characterized by the 
Chaucerian influence, like that of all the writers who immediately 
followed Chaucer, showing some of its humor and freshness, but at 
times it is permeated with an asceticism wholly foreign to the char- 
acter of Chaucer. 


THE MERLE! AND THE NIGHTINGALE 


In May, as that Aurora did upspring, 
With crystal eyne,? chasing the clouds sable, 
I heard a Merle, with merry notes, sing 
A Song of Love, with voice right comfortable, 
Against the orient beams amiable, 5 
Upon a blissful branch of laurel green. 
This was her sentence sweet and delectable, 
‘A lusty® life in Love’s service been!’ 


%Gentle——"Blackbird. 2K yes. 3Pleasant. 


THE MERLE AND THE NIGHTINGALE 


Under this branch ran down a river bright 
Of balmy liquor, crystalline of hue, 
Against the heavenly azure sky’s light: 
Where did, upon the other side, pursue 
A Nightingale, with sugared notes new; 
Whose angel-feathers as the peacock shone. 
This was her Song, and of a sentence true, 
‘All love is lost but upon God alone!’ 


With notes glad and glorious harmony, 
This joyful Merle so salutes she the day; 
While rung the woodes of her melody, 
Saying ‘Awake, ye Lovers! O, this May! 
Lo! fresh Flora has flourished every spray! 
As Nature has her taught, the noble Queen, 
The field be clothed in a new array! 
A lusty life in Love’s service been!’ 


Never sweeter noise was heard by living man, 
Than made this merry gentle Nightingale: 

Her sound went with the river, as it ran, 
Out-through the fresh and flourished lusty vale. 
‘O, Merle!’ quod she, ‘O, fool! stint* of thy tale! 

For in thy Song good sentence is there none! 
For both is tint® the time and the travail® 
Of every love but upon God alone!’ 


‘Cease,’ quod the Merle, ‘thy preaching, Nightingale! 
Shall folk their youth spend in to holiness? 
Of young Saints grow old Fiends but fable! 
Fie! hypocrite! in years’ tenderness, 
Against the law of kind’ thou go’st express! 
That crooked Age makes one with Youth serene; 
Which Nature, of conditions made diverse! 
A lusty life in Love’s service been!’ 


4Stop. Lost. sWork. ™Nature. 


35 


10 


I5 


20 


25 


30 


35 


40 


36 WILLIAM DUNBAR 


The Nightingale said, ‘Fool! remember thee, 
That both in youth and eld, and every hour, 
The love of God most dear to Man should be! 
That Him, of nought, wrought like his own figure; 
And died Himself, from death him to succour. 
O, whether was shown there true love, or none? 
He is most true and steadfast paramour! 
All love is lost but upon Him alone!’ 


The Merle said, ‘Why put God so great beauty 
In Ladies, with such womanly ’having, 
But if He would that they should loved be? 
To love eke, Nature gave them inclining! 
And He, of Nature that worker was and King, 
Would nothing frustrate put, nor let be seen, 
Into His creature, of His own making! 
A lusty life in Love’s service been!’ 


The Nightingale said, ‘Not to that behoof, 
Put God such beauty in a Lady’s face, 

‘That she should have the thanks therefore, or love! 
But He, the worker! that put in her such grace 
Of beauty, bontie,® richesse, time, or space; 

And every goodness that be to come, or gone, 
The thanks redounds to Him in every place! 
All love is lost but upon God alone!’ 


‘O, Nightingale! it were a story nice 
That Love should not depend on Charity! 
And if that Virtue contrary be to Vice, 
Then Love must be a virtue! as thinks me: 
For aye to love, envy must contrary be. 


God bade eke, ‘“‘Love thy neighbor from the spleen!” 


And who than Ladies sweeter neighbors be? 
A lusty life in Love’s service been!’ 





8Goodness. 


45 


50 


55 


60 


65 


70 


THE MERLE AND THE NIGHTINGALE 


The Nightingale said, ‘Bird! why dost thou rave? 
Man may take in his Lady such delight 
Him to forget, that her such virtue gave; 
And for his Heaven receive her colour white! 
Her golden tressed hairs redomyt,? 
Like to 4 pollo’s beams though they shone, 
Should not him blind from love that is perfite!1° 
All love is lost but upon God alone!’ 


The Merle said, ‘Love is cause of Honour aye! 
Love makes cowards manhood to purchase! 
Love makes Knights hardy at assay! 
Love makes wretches full of largess! 
Love makes sweir!? fold full of business! 
Love makes sluggards fresh and well-beseen! 
Love changes Vice in Virtue’s nobleness! 
A lusty life in Love’s service been!’ 


The Nightingale said, “True is the contrary! 
Such frustrate love, it blinds men so far, 
In to their minds, it makes them to vary. 
In false vain-glory, they so drunken are, 
Their wit is went! of woe they are not ware, 
Until that all worship away be from them gone! 
Fame! goods! and strength! Wherefore well say I dare, 
All love is lost but upon God alone!’ 


‘Tnen said the Merle, ‘Mine error I confess! 
This frustrate love all is but vanity! 
Blind ignorance me gave such hardiness, 
To argue so against the verity! 
Wherefore I counsel every man, that he 
With Love not in the Fiend’s net be tone ;?? 
But love the Love, that did for his love die! 
All love is lost but upon God alone!’ 


‘Tied up, Perfect. ULazy. Taken, 


75 


80 


85 


gO 


95 


100 


38 STEPHEN HAWES 


Then sang they both, with voices loud and clear. 105 
The Merle sang, ‘Man! love God, that has thee wrought!’ 
The Nightingale sang, ‘Man! love the Lord most dear, 
That thee, and all this world, made of nought!’ 
The Merle said, ‘Love Him, that thy love has sought 
From heaven to earth; and here took flesh and bone!’ 110 
The Nightingale sang, ‘And with His death thee bought; 
All love is lost but upon Him alone!’ 


Then flew these birds o’er the boughs sheen,** 
Singing of Love among the leaves small, 
Whose ythand*‘ pleid’® yet made my thoughts green 115 
Both sleeping, waking, in rest and in travail. 
Me to recomfort most it does avail 
Again for love, when love I can find none, 
To think how sang this Merle and Nightingale, 
‘All love is lost but upon God alone!’ 120 


STEPHEN HAWES 
C. 1474——c. 1523 


Stephen Hawes, poet, was born in Suffolk about 1474. He studied 
at Oxford. After completing his studies he spent some time upon 
the continent. Upon his return to England he became a groom of 
the chamber in the service of Henry VII. 

His chief works consist of The Pastime of Pleasure, The Example 
of Virtue, and The Conversion of Swearers. As a poet Hawes is a 
follower of Chaucer, but the quality of his verse is such as to class 
him among the least of his age. 

He died, according to the latest researches, about 1523. 


From THE EXAMPLE OF VIRTUE 
DAME NATURE SPEAKETH 


I am the original of Man’s creation; 
And by me always the world doth multiply 
In wealth, pleasure, and delectation; 


Bright. “Busy. Arguing. 


THE EXAMPLE OF VIRTUE 


As I will show now, in this party. 

My deeds be subtle and wrought craftily. 
What were the World, if I were not? 
It were soon done, as well I wot !? 


The Law of Nature doth man bind, 
Both beast, fowl, and fish also, 
In their degree, to do their kind.? 
Blame them not, if they go so! 
For hard it is ever to overgo 
The kind of Nature, in her degree: 
For everything must show his property.® 


Who of their properties list* to read, 
Let him look into the book of Bartholomew, 
And to his scripture take good heed: 
That right nobly of them doth show, 
With all their acts, being not a few; 
But wondrous many by alteration, 
For like hath like his operation. 


I, Nature, nourish by mine affection, 
Man’s human parts superficial ; 
And am the spring of his complexion: 
The fountain of his veins inferial, 
To him conserve most dear and special. 
Though he were hardy and wise, he might not 
me forbear; 


oe, 


10 


15 


20 


25 


Nor Fortune, without me, availeth not him a pear. 


THE EXCUSATION OF THE AUCTOR 


UnrTo all Poetes I do me excuse, 

If that I offende for lacke of science; 

This lyttle boke yet do ye not refuse, 

‘Though it be devoyde of famous eloquence; 
Adde or detra* by your hye sapience; 

And pardon me of my hye enterpryse, 

Whiche of late this fable dyd fayne and devise. 


1Know. Nature. Quality. 4Desire.——'Belittle. 


40 THOMAS MORE 


Go, little boke! I praye God the save 

From misse-metrying by wrong impression; 

And who that ever list the for to have, 10 
That he perceyve well thyne intencion, 

For to be grounded without presumption, 

As for to eschue the synne of ydlenes; 

To make suche bokes I apply my busines. 


Besechyng God for to geve me grace 15 
Bokes to compyle of moral vertue; 

Of my maister Lidgate to folowe the trace, 

His noble fame for laude and renue,” 

Whiche in his lyfe the slouthe did eschue; 

Makyng great bokes to be in memory, 20 
On whose soule I pray God have mercy. 


TELO UV Ars NiO cReE 
Ay He oto Gay 


Sir Thomas More (Blessed ‘Thomas More), statesman, writer, 
and martyr, was born in London in 1478. He spent his boyhood in 
the household of Archbishop Morton, who later sent him to Oxford. 
Upon leaving Oxford he read law at Lincoln’s Inn, studied for a time 
at Furnival’s Inn, and finally spent four years at the Charterhouse, 
his mind turning toward the priesthood. 

In 1504, however, he entered Parliament, and through the Lord 
Chancellor, Cardinal Wolsey, he was brought to the attention of 
Henry VIII. In 1529, upon the fall of Wolsey, he was, much 
against his inclination, prevailed upon to become Lord Chancellor 
himself. ‘Three years later, seeing that the King’s intention was to 
break with the Church, and to form a schism if it would better serve 
his ends, More resigned the chancellorship; and in 1534, having de- 
clined to take the Oath of Adherence, he was imprisoned in the 
‘Tower, where, in 1535, he was beheaded. ‘The Church beatified him 
in 1886. 

As a writer he is to be thought of as one of the earliest Englishmen 
to use prose that was clear, concise, rhythmical, and flexible. Among 
his chief writings are the Life of Pico della Mirandolla, the Life of 
Richard III, Utopia, and the Dialogue of Comfort Against Tribula- 


tion. 


2Renown, 


UTOPIA 41 


From UTOPIA 


OF SCIENCES, CRAFTES AND OCCUPATIONS 


USBANDRIE is a Science common to them all in gen- 
erall, bothe men and women, wherein they be all experte 
and cunning. In this they be all instructed even from 

their youth: partelie in their scholes with traditions and preceptes, 
and partlie in the countrey nighe the citie, brought up as it were 
in playinge, not onely beholding the use of it, but by occasion of 
exercising their bodies practising it also. Besides husbandrie, 
whiche (as I saide) is common to them all, everye one of them 
learneth one or other several and particular science, as his owne 
proper crafte. “That is most commonly either clothworking in 
wol or flaxe, or masonrie, or the smithes craft, or the carpenters 
science. For there is none other occupation that any number to 
speake of doth use there. For their garmentes, which through- 
oute all the Ilande be of one fashion (savynge that there is a 
difference betwene the mans garmente and the womans, betwene 
the maried and the unmaried) and this one continueth for ever- 
more unchaunged, semely and comelie to the eye, no lette to the 
movynge and weldynge of the bodye, also fytte both for wynter 
and summer: as for these garmentes (I saye) every familie 
maketh their owne. But of the other foresaide craftes everye 
man learneth one. And not onely the men, but also the women. 
But the women, as the weaker sort, be put to the easier craftes: 
as to worke wolle and flaxe. The more laborsome sciences be 
committed to the men. For the mooste part every man is broughte 
up in his fathers crafte. For moste commonlye they be naturallie 
therto bente and inclined. But yf a mans minde stande to anye 
other, he is by adoption put into a familye of that occupation, 
which he doth most fantasy. Whome not onely his father, but 
also the magistrates do diligently loke to, that he be put to a dis- 
crete and an honest householder. Yea, and if anye person, when 
he hath learned one crafte, be desierous to learne also another, he 
is likewyse suffred and permitted. 

When he hathe learned bothe, he occupieth whether he wyll: 


42 THOMAS MORE 


onelesse the citie have more neade of the one, then of the other. 
The chiefe and almooste the onelye offyce of the Syphograuntes 
is, to see and take hede, that no manne sit idle: but that everye 
one applye hys own craft with earnest diligence. And yet for 
all that, not to be wearied from earlie in the morninge, to late 
in the evenninge, with continuall worke, like labouringe and 
toylinge beastes. For this is worse then the miserable and 
wretched condition of bondemen. Whiche nevertheles is al- 
mooste everye where the lyfe of workemen and artificers, saving 
in Utopia. For they dividynge the daye and the nyghte into 
to woorke, before noone, upon the whiche they go streighte to 
diner: and after diner, when they have rested two houres, then 
they worke iii. houres and upon that they go to supper. Aboute 
eyghte of the cloke in the eveninge (countinge one of the clocke 
at the firste houre after noone) they go to bedde: eyght houres 
they geve to slepe. All the voide time, that is betwene the houres 
of worke, slepe, and meate, that they be suffered to bestowe, every 
man as he liketh best him selfe. Not to thintent that they shold 
mispend this time in riote or slouthfulnes: but beynge then licensed 
from the laboure of their owne occupations, to bestow the time 
well and thriftelye upon some other science, as shall please them. 
For it is a solempne custome there, to have lectures daylye early 
in the morning, where to be presente they onely be constrained 
that be namelye chosen and appoynted to learninge. Howbeit a 
greate multitude of every sort of people, both men and women 
go to heare lectures, some one and some an other, as everye mans 
nature is inclined. Yet, this notwithstanding, if any man had 
rather bestowe this time upon his owne occupation, (as it 
chaunceth in manye, whose mindes rise not in the contemplation 
of any science liberall) he is not letted, nor prohibited, but is also 
praysed and commended, as profitable to the common wealthe. 
After supper they bestow one houre in playe: in summer in their 
gardens: in winter in their commen halles: where they dine and 
suppe. “There they exercise themselves in musike, or els in honest 
and wholesome communication. Diceplaye, and suche other 
folishe and pernicious games they know not. But they use ij. 
games not much unlike the chesse. The one is the battell of 
numbers, wherein one numbre stealethe awaye another. ‘The 


UTOPIA 43 


other is wherin vices fyghte with vertues, as it were in battel array, 
or a set fyld. In the which game is verye properlye shewed, 
bothe the striffe and discorde that vices have amonge themselfes, 
and agayne theire unitye and concorde againste vertues: And also 
what vices be repugnaunt to what vertues: with what powre and 
strength they assaile them openlye: by what wieles and subtelty 
they assaulte them secretelye: with what helpe and aide the ver- 
tues resiste, and overcome the puissaunce of the vices: by what 
craft they frustrate their purposes: and finally by what sleight or 
means the one getteth the victory. But here least you be deceaved, 
one thinge you muste looke more narrowly upon. For seinge they 
bestowe but vi. houres in woorke, perchaunce you maye thinke 
that the lacke of some necessarye thinges hereof maye ensewe. 
But this is nothinge so. For that smal time is not only enough 
but also to muche for the stoore and abundaunce of all thinges, 
that be requisite, either for the necessitie, or commoditie of life. 
The which thinge you also shall perceave, if you weye and con- 
sider with your selfes how great a parte of the people in other 
contreis lyveth ydle. First almost all women, whyche be the 
halfe of the whole numbre: or els if the women be somewhere 
occupied, there most comonlye in their steade the men be ydle. 
Besydes this how greate, and howe ydle a companye is there of 
preystes, and relygious men, as they cal them? put thereto al ryche 
men, speciallye all landed men, which comonlye be called gentil- 
men, and noble men. ‘Take into this numbre also theire 
servauntes: I meane all that flocke of stoute bragging russhe 
bucklers. Joyne to them also sturdy and valiaunte beggers, clok- 
inge their idle lyfe under the coloure of some disease or sickenes. 
And trulye you shal find them much fewer then you thought, by 
whose labour all these thinges are wrought, that in mens affaires 
are now daylye used and frequented. Nowe consyder with youre 
selfe, of these fewe that doe woorke, how fewe be occupied in 
necessarye woorkes. For where money beareth all the swinge, 
there many vayne and superfluous occupations must nedes be used, 
to serve only for ryotous superfluite, and unhonest pleasure. For 
the same multitude that now is occupied in woork, if they were 
devided into so fewe occupations as the necessarye use of nature 
requyreth; in so greate plentye of things as then of necessity 
woulde ensue, doubtles the prices wolde be to lytle for the 


44 THOMAS MORE 


artifycers to maynteyne theire livinges. But yf all these, that be 
nowe busied about unprofitable occupations, with all the whole 
flocke of them that lyve ydellye and slouthfullye, whyche consume 
and waste everye one of them more of these thinges that comes 
by other mens laboure, then ij. of the workemen themselfes doo: 
yf all these (I saye) were sette to profytable occupatyons, you 
easelye perceave howe lytle tyme would be enoughe, yea and to 
muche to stoore us with all thinges that maye be requisite either 
for necessitie, or for commoditye, yea or for pleasure, so that the 
same pleasure be trewe and natural. And this in Utopia the 
thinge it selfe makethe manifeste and playne. For there in all the 
citye, with the whole contreye, or shiere adjoyning to it scaselye 
500. persons of all the whole numbre of men and women, that be 
neither to olde, nor to weake to worke, be licensed and distcharged 
from laboure. Amonge them be the Siphograuntes (whoe thoughe 
they be by the lawes exempte and privilged from labour) yet they 
exempte not themselfes: to the intent that they may the rather by 
their example provoke other to worke. ‘The same vacation from 
labour do they also enjoye, to whome the people persuaded by the 
commendation of the priestes, and secrete election of the 
Siphograuntes, have geven a perpetual licence from laboure to 
learninge. But if any one of them prove not accordinge to the 
expectation and hoope of him conceaved, he is forthwith plucked 
backe to the company of artificers. And contrarye wise, often it 
chaunceth that a handicraftes man doth so earnestly bestowe his 
vacaunte and spare houres in learninge, and throughe diligence so 
profyteth therin, that he is taken from his handy occupation, and 
promoted to the company of the learned. Oute of this ordre of 
the learned be chosen ambassadours, priestes, —ranibores, and 
finallye the prince him selfe. Whome they in theire olde tonge 
cal Barzanes, and by a newer name, Adamus. ‘The residewe of 
the people being neither ydle, nor yet occupied about unprofitable 
exercises, it may be easely judged in how fewe houres how muche 
good woorke by them may be doone and dispatched, towardes those 
thinges that I have spoken of. “This commodity they have also 
above other, that in the most part of necessarye occupations they 
neade not so much work, as other nations doe. For first of all 
the buildinge or repayringe of houses asketh everye where so manye 
mens continual labour, bicause that the unthrifty heire suffereth 


UTOPIA 45 


the houses that his father buylded in contyneuaunce of tyme to 
fall in decay. So that which he myghte have upholden wyth 
lytle coste, hys successoure is constreyned to buylde it agayne a 
newe, to his great charge. Yea manye tymes also the howse that 
stoode one man in muche moneye, another’ is of so nyce and soo 
delycate a mynde, that he settethe nothinge by it. And it beynge 
neglected, and therefore shortelye fallynge into ruyne, he buyldethe 
uppe another in an other place with no lesse coste and chardge. 
But amonge the Utopians, where all thinges be sett in a good 
ordre, and the common wealthe in a good staye, it very seldom 
chaunceth, that they cheuse a newe plotte to buyld an house upon. 
And they doo not only finde spedy and quicke remedies for pres- 
ent faultes: but also prevente them that be like to fall. And by 
this meanes their houses continewe and laste very longe with litle 
labour and smal reparations: in so much that this kind of woork- 
men somtimes have almost nothinge to doo. But that they be 
commaunded to hewe timbre at home, and to square and trimme 
up stones, to the intente that if anye woorke chaunce, it may the 
spedelier rise. Now, syr, in theire apparell, marke (I praye you) 
howe few woorkmen they neade. Fyrste of al, whyles they be 
at woorke, they be covered homely with leather or skinnes, that 
will last vii. yeares. When they go furthe abrode they caste 
upon them a cloke, whych hydeth the other homelye apparel. 
These clookes through out the whole Iland be all of one coloure, 
and that is the natural coloure of the wul. ‘They therefore do 
not only spend much lesse wullen clothes then is spente in other 
contreis, but also the same standeth them in muche lesse coste. 
But lynen clothe is made with lesse laboure, and is therefore hadde 
more in use. But in lynen cloth onlye whytenesse, in wullen only 
clenlynes is regarded. As for the smalnesse or finenesse of the 
threde, that is no thinge passed for. And this is the cause 
wherfore in other places iiii. or v. clothe gownes of dyvers coloures, 
and as manye silke cootes be not enoughe for one man. Yea and 
yf he be of the delicate and nyse sorte x. be to fewe: whereas 
there one garmente wyl serve a man mooste commenlye ij. yeares. 
For whie shoulde he desyre moo? Seinge yf he had them, he 
should not be the better hapte or covered from colde, neither in 
his apparel anye whitte the comlyer. Wherefore, seinge they be 
ali exercysed in profitable occupations, and that fewe artificers in 


a6 THOMAS MORE 


the same craftes be sufficiente, this is the cause that plentye of all 
thinges beinge among them, they doo sometymes bringe forthe an 
innumerable companye of people to amend the hyghe wayes, yf 
anye be broken. Many times also, when they have no suche 
woorke to be occupied aboute, an open proclamation is made, that 
they should bestowe fewer houres in worke. For the magistrates 
doe not exercise theire citizens againste theire willes in unneadefull 
laboures. For whie in the institution of that weale publique, this 
ende is onelye and chiefely pretended and mynded, that what 
time maye possibly be spared from the necessarye occupacions and 
affayres of the commen wealth, all that the citizeins shoulde with- 
drawe from the bodely service to the free libertye of the minde, 
and gnarnisshinge of the same. For herein they suppose the 
felicitye of this liffe to consiste. 


OF THEIRE LIVINGE AND MUTUAL CONVERSATION TOGETHER 


But nowe wil I declare how the citizens use them selfes one 
towardes another: what familiar occupieng and enterteynement, 
there is amonge the people, and what fassion they use in the dis- 
tribution of every thing. Firste the city consisteth of families, the 
families most commonlye be made of kinredes. For the women, 
when they be maryed at a laweful age, they goo into theire hus- 
bandes houses. But the male children with al the whole male 
ofspringe continewe still in their owne family and be governed of 
the eldest and auncientest father, onles he dote for age: for then 
the next to him in age, is placed in his rowme. But to thintent 
the prescript number of the citezens shoulde neither decrease, nor 
above measure increase, it is ordeined that no familie which in 
every citie be vi. thousand in the whole, besydes them of the 
contrey, shall at ones have fewer children of the age of xiiii. yeares 
or there about then x. or mo than xvi. for of children under this 
age no numbre can be prescribed or appointed. ‘This measure or 
numbre is easely observed and kept, by putting them that in fuller 
families be above the number into families of smaller increase. 
But if chaunce be that in the whole citie the stoore increase above 
the just number, therewith they fil up the lacke of other cities. 
But if so be that the multitude throughout the whole Ilande passe 
and excede the dewe number, then they chuese out of very citie 


UTOPIA 47 


certein citezens, and build up a towne under their owne lawes in 
the next land where the inhabitauntes have muche waste and un- 
occupied ground, receaving also of the same countrey people to 
them, if they wil joyne and dwel with them. They thus joyning 
and dwelling together do easelye agre in one fassion of living, and 
that to the great wealth of both the peoples. For they so bringe 
the matter about by theire lawes, that the ground which before 
was neither good not profitable for the one nor for the other, is 
nowe sufficiente and fruteful enoughe for them both. But if the 
inhabitauntes of that lande wyl not dwell with them to be ordered 
by their lawes, then they dryve them out of those boundes which 
they have limited, and apointed out for them selves. And if they 
resiste and rebel, then they make warre agaynst them. For they 
counte this the moste juste cause of warre, when anye people 
holdethe a piece of grounde voyde and vacaunt to no good nor 
profitable use, kepyng other from the use and possession of it, 
whiche notwithstandyng by the lawe of nature ought thereof to 
be nouryshed and relieved. If anye chaunce do so muche dimin- 
ishe the number of any of theire cities, that it cannot be fylled up 
agayne, without the diminishynge of the just numbre of the other 
cyties (whiche they say chaunced but twyse synce the beginnyng 
of the lande throughe a greate pestilente plage) then they fulfyll 
and make up the numbre with cytezens fetched out of theire owne 
forreyne townes, for they had rather suffer theire forreyne townes 
to decaye and peryshe, then any cytie of theire owne Ilande to be 
diminished. But nowe agayne to the conversation of the cytezens 
amonge themselfes. The eldeste (as I sayde) rulethe the familye. 
The wyfes bee ministers to theire husbandes, the children to theire 
parentes, and to bee shorte the yonger to theire elders. Every 
Cytie is devided into foure equall partes or quarters. In the 
myddes of every quarter there is a market place of all maner of 
thinges. ‘Thether the workes of every familie be brought into 
certeyne houses. And everye kynde of thing is layde up severall 
in bernes or store houses. From hence the father of everye familye, 
or every housholder fetchethe whatsoever he and his have neade 
of, and carieth it away with him without money, without ex- 
chaunge, without any gage, pawne, or pledge. For whye shoulde 
any thing be denyed unto him? Seynge there is abundaunce of 
all thinges, and that it is not to bee feared, leste anye man wyll 


48 THOMAS MORE 


aske more then he neadeth. For whie should it be thoughte that 
that man woulde aske more then anough, which is sewer never to 
lacke? Certeynely in all kyndes of lyvinge creatures either feare 
of lacke dothe cause covetousnes and ravyne, or in man only 
pryde, which counteth it a glorious thinge to passe and excel other 
in the superfluous and vayne ostentation of thinges. “The whyche 
kynde of vice amonge the Utopians can have no place. Nexte to 
the market places that I spake of, stande meate markettes: whether 
be brought not only all sortes of herbes, and the fruites of trees, 
with breade, but also fishe, and all maner of tiii. footed beastes, 
and wilde foule that be mans meate. But first the fylthynes and 
ordure therof is clene washed awaye in the renninge ryver without 
the cytie in places appoynted mete for the same purpose. From 
thence the beastes be brought in kylled, and cleane wasshed by 
the handes of theire bondemen. For they permitte not their frie 
citezens to accustome them selfes to the killing of beastes, through 
the use whereof they thinke, clemencye the genteleste affection of 
oure nature by lytle and lytle to decaye and peryshe. Neither 
they suffer anye thinge that is fylthye, lothesom, or unclenlye, to 
be broughte into the cytie, least the ayre by the stenche therof 
infected and corrupte, shoulde cause pestilente diseases. More- 
over everye strete hath certeyne great large halles sett in equal 
distaunce one from another, everye one knowen by a severall 
name. In these halles dwell the Syphograuntes. And to everye 
one of the same halles be apoynted xxx. families, on either side xv. 
‘The stewardes of everye halle at a certayne houre come in to the 
meate markettes, where they receyve meate according to the num- 
ber of their halles. But first and chieflie of all, respect is had to the 
sycke, that be cured in the hospitalles. For in the circuite of the 
citie, a litle without the walles, they have iii. hospitalles, so bigge, 
so wyde, so ample, and so large, that they may seme iili. litle 
townes, which were devised of that bignes partely to thintent the 
sycke, be they never so many in numbre, shul not lye to thronge or 
strayte, and therefore uneasely, and incommodiously: and partely 
that they which were taken and holden with contagious disease, 
such as be wonte by infection to crepe from one to another, myght 
be layde apart farre from the company of the residue. hese 
hospitalles be so wel appointed, and with al thinges necessary to 
health so furnished, and more over so diligent attendaunce through 


UTOPIA 49 


the continual presence of cunning phisitians is geven, that though 
no man be sent thether against his will, yet notwithstandinge there 
is no sicke persone in al the citie, that had not rather lye there, 
then at home in his owne house. When the stewarde of the sicke 
hath received suche meates as the phisitians have prescribed, then 
the beste is equallye devided among the halles, according to the 
company of every one, saving that there is had a respect to the 
prince, the byshop, the tranibours, and to ambassadours and all 
straungers, if there be any, which be verye fewe and seldome. 
But they also when they be there, have certeyne several! houses 
apointed and prepared for them. ‘To these halles at the set houres 
of dinner and supper commeth all the whole Siphograuntie or 
warde, warned by the noyse of a brasen trumpet: except suche as 
be sicke in the hospitalles, or els in their owne houses. Howbeit 
no man is prohibited or forbid, after the halles be served, to fetch 
home meate out of the market to his own house, for they knowe 
that no man wyl doe it without a cause reasonable. For thoughe 
no man be prohibited to dyne at home, yet no man doth it will- 
yngly: because it is counted a pointe of smal honestie. And also 
it were a follye to take the payne to dresse a badde diner at home, 
when they may be welcome to good and fyne fare so neighe hande 
at the hall. In this hal al vile service, all slavery, and drudgerie, 
with all laboursome toyle, and base busines is done by bondemen. 
But the women of every family by course have the office and 
charge of cookerie for sethinge and dressinge the meate, and order- 
inge all thinges therto belongyng. ‘They sit at three tables or 
moe, accordinge to the numbre of their company. The men sitte 
upon the bench next the wall, and the women againste them on 
the other side of the table, that yf anye sodeyne evyll should 
chaunce to them, as many tymes happeneth to women with chylde, 
they maye rise wythoute trouble or disturbaunce of anye bodie, and 
go thence into the nurcerie. The nurceis sitte severall alone with 
theyr younge suckelinges in a certaine parloure appointed and 
deputed to the same purpose, never withoute fire and cleane water, 
nor yet without cradels, that when they wyll they maye laye 
downe the younge infantes, and at theyr pleasure take them oute 
of their swathynge clothes, and holde them to the fire, and refreshe 
them with playe. Every mother is nource to her owne childe, 
onles either death, or sycknes be the let. When that chaunceth, 


0 THOMAS MORE 


the wives of the Syphograuntes quyckelye provyde a nource. And 
that is not harde to be done. For they that can doo it, profer 
themselves to no service so gladlye as to that. Because that there 
thys kinde of pitie is muche praysed: and the chylde that is nour- 
ished, ever after taketh his nource for his owne naturall mother. 
Also amonge the nourceis, sytte all the children that be under the 
age of v. yeares. All the other chyldren of bothe kyndes, as well 
boyes as girles, that be under the age of maryage, do eyther serve 
at the tables, or els if they be to yonge therto, yet they stand by 
with marvailous silence. “That whiche is geven to them from the 
table they eate, and other severall dynner tyme they have none. 
The Siphograunte and his wife sitte in the myddes of the high 
table, forasmuch as that is counted the honorablest place, and be- 
cause from thence all the whole companie is in their sight. For 
that table standeth overwharte the over ende of the hall. To them 
be joyned two of the auncientest and eldest. For at everye table 
they sit foure at a meesse. But yf there be a church standing in 
that Syphograuntie or warde, then the priest and his wife sitteth 
with the Siphograunt, as chiefe in the company. On both sydes 
of them sit yonge men, and nexte unto them againe olde men. 
And thus through out all the house equall of age be sette together, 
and yet be mixt and matched with unequal ages. ‘This, they say, 
was ordeyned, to the intent that the sage gravitie and reverence 
of the elders should kepe the yongers from wanton licence of 
wordes and behavioure. Forasmuch as nothynge can be so 
secretlye spoken or done at the table, but either they that sit on the 
one side or on the other muste nedes perceave it. “The dishes be 
not set down in order from the first place but all the olde men 
(whose places be marked with some speciall token to be knowen) 
be first served of their meate, and then the residue equally. The 
old men devide their deinties as they think best to the yonger on 
eche syde of them. ‘Thus the elders be not defrauded of their 
dewe honoure, and neverthelesse equall commoditie commeth to 
every one. “They begin everye dinner and supper of redinge 
sumthing that perteneth to good maners and vertue. But it is 
shorte, because no man shal be greved therwith. Hereof thelders 
take occasion of honest communication, but neither sadde nor 
unpleasaunt. Howbeit they do not spende all the whole diner- 
time themselves with longe and tedious talkes: but they gladly 


COMFORT AGAINST TRIBULATION g1 


heare also the yonge men: yea, and purposelye provoke them to 
talke, to thentent that they may have a profe of every mans wit, 
and towardnes, or disposition to vertue, which commonlie in the 
libertie of feasting doth shew and utter it self. Their diners be 
verie short: but their suppers be sumwhat longer, because that 
after dyner foloweth laboure, after supper slepe and natural reste, 
whiche they thinke to be of more strength and efficacie to wholsome 
and healthfull digestion. No supper is passed without musicke. 
Nor their bankettes lacke no conceytes nor jonketes. “They burne 
swete gummes and spices or perfumes, and pleasaunt smelles, and 
sprinckle aboute swete oyntementes and waters, yea, they leave 
nothing undone that maketh for the cheringe of the companye. 
For they be muche enclined to this opinion: to thinke no kinde of 
pleasure forbydden, wherof commeth no harme. ‘Thus therfore 
and after this sort they live togethers in the citie, but in the coun- 
trey they that dwell alone farre from any neighboures, do dyne and 
suppe at home in their owne houses. For no familie there lacketh 
any kinde of victualles, as from whom commeth ali that the 
citezens eate and lyve by. 


From A DIALOGUE OF COMFORT 
AGAINST TRIBULATION 


THAT THE COUMFORT DEUISED BY ALL THE OLDE PAYNEM PHY- 
LOSOPHERS WER VNSUFFICIENT, AND THE CAUSE WHEREFORE 


Antony. Fyrst shall you, good cosin, vnderstande this, that the 
naturall wyse men of thys world, the old morall Philosophers, 
laboured much in this matter, and manye naturall reasons haue they 
written, wherby they myght encourage menne to sette little by 
suche goodes or suche hurtes either, the going or the coming 
wherof, are the matter and the cause of tribulacion, as are the 
goodes of fortune, riches, fauor, frendes, fame, worldly woor- 
shippe, and suche other thinges: or of the bodye, as beawtie, 
strength, agilitie, quickenesse, and healthe. “These thinges (ye 
wote well) cumming to vs, are matter of worldlye wealth: and 
taken from vs by fortune or by force, or ye feare of the loosing, 
be matter of aduersitie and tribulacion. For tribulacion semeth 
generallye, to signifye nothynge elles but some kynd of grief, 


52 THOMAS MORE 


either pain of the bodye, or heauinesse of the mynde. Nowe the 
bodye not to feele that it feeleth, all the witte in the worlde cannot 
bringe about. But that the mynde should not bee grieued neither 
with the payne that the bodye feeleth, nor with occasyons of 
heauinesse offered and geuen vnto the soule it selfe: this thing 
laboured the Philosophers very much about, and manye goodlye 
sayinges haue they toward the strength and comfort agaynst 
tribulacion, excyting menne to the full contempte of all worldlye 
losse, and despysynge of syckenesse, and all bodelye griefe, payne- 
full death and all. Howebeit in verye dede, for anye thyng that 
euer [ readde in them, I neuer could yet fynde, that euer those 
naturall reasons were hable to geue sufficient coumforte of them 
selfe: for they neuer stretche so farre, but that they leaue vn- 
touched for lacke of necessarye knowledge, that specyalle poynte 
whyche is not onelye the chiefe coumforte of all: but wythoute 
whiche also, all other coumfortes are nothyng, that is to witte, 
the referryng the finall ende of theyr coumforte vnto God, and to 
repute and take for the speciall cause of coumfort, that by the 
pacient sufferance of their tribulacion, they shall atteyne his 
fauoure, and for theyr payne, receyue rewarde at hys hande in 
heauen. And for lacke of knowledge of thys ende, they did (as 
they nedes must) leaue vntouched also the verye specialle meane, 
withoute whiche, we can neuer atteyne to this coumfort, that is 
to wit, the gracyous ayde and helpe of God to moue, styrre, and 
guyde vs forewarde, in the referring all oure ghostely coumfort, 
yea and our worldly coumforte too, all vnto that heauenlye ende. 
And therfore as I saye, for the lacke of these thinges, all theyr 
coumfortable counsayles are verye farre vnsufficient: howe be it, 
though they be farre vnable to cure our disease of themselfe, and 
therfore are not sufficient to be taken for our physicions: some 
good drugges haue thei yet in their shoppes for which they may 
be suffered to dwell among our poticaries, if their medicines bee 
made not of theyr owne braynes, but after the billes made by the 
greate physicion God, prescrybynge the medicines hymselfe, and 
correcting the faultes of theyr erronyous receyptes. For without 
thys way taken with them, they shall not fayle to doe, as many 
bold blynde poticaries dooe: whiche eyther for lucre, or of a foolish 
pryde, geue sicke folke medicines of their owne deuising, and 
therewith kill vp in corners manye suche simple folke, as they 


COMFORT AGAINST TRIBULATION 53 


find so foolish to putte their lyues in suche lewde and vnlearned 
blynde bayardes handes. We shall therefore neither fully receiue 
these philosophers reasons in this matter, nor yet vtterlye refuse 
them: but vsynge them in suche order as shall bee seme them, the 
principall and the effectuall medicines agaynste these dyseases of 
tribulacion, shall we fetch from the hyghe, greate, and excellent 
phisicion, wythoute whome we coulde neuer bee healed of oure 
verye deaddely dysease of damnacion, for our necessitie wherein, 
the spirite of God spirituallye speaketh of hymselfe to vs, and 
byddeth vs of all our healthe geue him the honoure: and therein 
thus sayth vnto vs. Honora medicum propter necessitatem, etenim 
ordinauit eum altissimus. Honour thou the phisicion, for him 
hath the hygh God ordeyned for thy necessitie. ‘Therefore lette 
vs require that hygh phisicion, oure blessed sauiour Chryste, whose 
holye manhod God ordeyned for our necessitie, to cure our deadly 
woundes, with the medicine made of the most holesome bloud 
of hys owne blessed body: that likewise as he cured by ye incom- 
parable medicine our mortall maladye, it may like him to sende vs 
and putte in our myndes suche medicynes at thys tyme, as 
agaynste the sickenesse and sorowes of tribulacyons, may so com- 
fort and strength vs in his grace, as our deadly enemye the deuill, 
maye neuer haue the power by his poysoned dart of murmur, 
grudge, and impacience, to turne oure short sickenes of worldlye 
tribulacion, into the endles euerlasting death of infernall damna- 
cion. 


THAT FOR A FOUNDACION MEN MUST NEDES BEGINNE WITH 
FAYTH 


Syth all our principall coumforte must come of God, we must 
first presuppose in hym to whome we shall with anye ghostely 
counsell geue any effectuall coumfort, one ground to begyn withall: 
whereuppon, all that we shall build must be supported and stand, 
that is to witte, the grounde and foundacion of fayth, without 
which had ready before, all the spiritual coumfort that any man 
maye speake of, can neuer auaile a flye. For likewise as it wer 
vtterlye vayne to lay natural resons of coumfort, to him that hath 
no witte, so were it vndoutedlye frustrate to laye spirituall causes 
of coumforte, to hym that hath no faythe. For except a man first 
belieue, that holye scripture is the woorde of God, and that the 


54 THOMAS MORE 


woorde of God is true, how can a man take any coumforte of that, 
that the scripture telleth him therin? Nedes must the man take 
little fruit of the scripture, if he either belieue not that it were the 
woorde of God, or els wene yt though it wer, it might yet be for 
al that vntrue. ‘This fayth as it is more faynte or more strong, so 
shall the coumfortable woordes of holye scripture stande the man 
in more stede or lesse. “This vertue of fayth, can neither any man 
geue himselfe, nor yet any one manne another: but though men 
maye with preaching be ministers vnto God therein, and the man 
with hys own free will obeying freely the inward inspiracion of 
God, be a weake woorker with almighty god therin: yet is ye faith 
in dede the gracious gift of god himself. For as Saynt James 
saith, Omne datum optimum et omne donum perfectum de sur- 
sum est descendens a patre luminum. Euery good gyft and 
euery perfit gyft, is geuen from aboue, descending from the father 
of lightes. Therfore feelyng our fayth by manye tokens very 
faynt, lette vs praye to him that geueth it, that it may please him 
to helpe and encrease it. And lette vs first saye with him in the 
ghospel: Credo domine, adiuua incredulitatem meam; 1 believe 
good Lorde, but helpe thou the lacke of my beliefe. And after 
lette vs pray with the Apostles: Domine, adauge nobis fidem; Lord 
encrease our fayth. And finallye, lette vs consider by Chrystes 
saying vnto them, that if we woulde not suffer the strength and 
feruour of our fayth to waxe luke warme, or rather key cold, and 
in maner lese his vigor by scatteryng our mindes abrode about 
so many tryfling thinges, that of the matters of our faith, we very 
seldom thinke but yt we woulde withdrawe our thought fro the 
respect and regard of all worldly fantasies, and so, gather our fayth 
together into a little narrowe rowme. And lyke the lyttle grayne 
of musterde seede, whiche is of nature hote: sette it in the garden 
of our soule, all weedes pulled out for the better feding of our 
faith, then shall it growe, and so spreade vppe in heyght, that the 
byrdes, that is to wit the holy Aungelles of heauen shal brede in 
our soule, and bring furth vertues in the branches of our fayth, and 
then with the faithfull trust, that through the true beliefe of 
Goodes woorde, we shall putte in his promyse, we shall be well 
hable to commaund a great mountayn of tribulacion, to voyde 
from the place where he stode in our hert, whereas with a verye 
fieble fayth and a faynte, we shall be scant hable to remoue a 


EVERYMAN &6 


lyttle hillocke. And therefore, as for the fyrst conclusion, as we 
must of necessitie before any spirituall coumfort presuppose the 
foundacion of fayth: So syth no man can geue vs faith but only 
God, lette vs neuer cease to cal vpon God therefore. 

Vyncent. Forsooth, good vncle, me thynketh that this founda- 
cion of fayth, which as you saye must be layde first, is so necessar- 
ily requisite, that without it, all spirituall coumforte wer vtterly 
geuen in vayn. And therfore now shal we pray God for a full 
and a fast fayth. 


EVERYMAN 
(Anonymous) 


c. 1500 


Everyman is a morality play. Both its exact date and its author- 
ship are unknown, although most scholars agree that it was written 
and produced during the late fifteenth or early sixteenth century. 
By some it is thought to be a translation of an earlier Dutch play, 
but internal evidence seems to discredit this belief. 

As a morality, it is a moral allegory cast into dramatic form, and 
as such is held to be one of the best examples of the form in the lit- 
erature. A morality generally depicts one of two themes: the strug- 
gle between the forces of good and evil for possession of the soul of 
man; or the approach of death. The latter is the theme of Everyman. 


CHARACTERS 
EVERYMAN STRENGTH 
Gop: ADONAI DISCRETION 
DEATH Five-WiIts 
MESSENGER BEAUTY 
FELLOWSHIP KNOWLEDGE 
CousIN CONFESSION 
KINDRED ANGEL 
Goops Doctor 


Goop-DEEps 


Here beginneth a treatise how the High Father of Heaven sendeth 
death to summon every creature to come and give account of 
their lives in this world and is in manner of a moral play. 


56 EVERYMAN 


Messenger. I pray you all give your audience, 
And hear this matter with reverence, 
By figure a moral play— 
The Summoning of Everyman called it is, 
That of our lives and ending shows 5 
How transitory we be all day. 
‘This matter is wondrous precious, 
But the intent of it is more gracious, 
And sweet to bear away. 
The story saith,—Man, in the beginning, 10 
Look well, and take good_heed to the ending, 
Be you never so gay! 
Ye think sin in the beginning full sweet, 
Which in the end causeth thy soul to weep, 
When the body lieth in clay. 15 
Here shall you see how Fellowship and Jollity, 
Both Strength, Pleasure, and Beauty, 
Will fade from thee as flower in May. 
For ye shall hear, how our Heaven King 
Calleth Everyman to a general reckoning: 20 
Give audience, and hear what he doth say. 

God. I perceive here in my majesty, 
How that all creatures be to me unkind, 
Living without dread in worldly prosperity: 
Of ghostly sight the people be so blind, 25 
Drowned in sin, they know me not for their God: 
In worldly riches is all their mind, 
They fear not my rightwiseness,' the sharp rod; 
My law that I showed, when I for them died, 
They forget clean, and shedding of my blood red; 30 
I hanged between two, it cannot be denied ; 
To get them life I suffered to be dead; 
I healed their feet, with thorns hurt was my head: 
I could do no more than I did truly, 
And now I see the people do clean forsake me. 35 
‘They use the seven deadly sins damnable ; 
As pride, covetise, wrath, and lechery, 
Now in the world be made commendable; 


1Justice, 


EVERYMAN 
And thus they leave of angels the heavenly company ; 
Everyman liveth so after his own pleasure, 
And yet of their life they be nothing sure: 
I see the more that I them forbear 
The worse they be from year to year; 
All that liveth appaireth? fast, 
Therefore I will in all the haste 
Have a reckoning of Everyman’s person; 
For an I leave the people thus alone 
In their life and wicked tempests, 
Verily they will become much worse than beasts; 
For now one would by envy another up eat; 
Charity they all do clean forget. 
I hoped well that Everyman 
In my glory should make his mansion, 
And thereto I had them all elect; 
But now I see, like traitors deject, 


They thank me not for the pleasure that I to them meant, 


Nor yet for their being that I them have lent; 

I proffered the people great multitude of mercy, 
And few there be that asketh it heartily; 

They be so cumbered with worldly riches, 

That needs on them I must do justice, 

On Everyman living without fear. 

Where art thou, Death, thou mighty messenger? 
Death. Almighty God, I am here at your will, 
Your commandment to fulfil. 

God. Go thou to Everyman, 

And show him in my name 

A pilgrimage he must on him take, 

Which he in no wise may escape; 

And that he bring with him a sure reckoning 
Without delay or any tarrying. 

Death. Lord, I will in the world go run over all, 
And cruelly outsearch both great and small ; 
Every man will I beset that liveth beastly 

Out of God’s laws, and dreadeth not folly: 

He that loveth riches I will strike with my dart, 


2F ades. 


57 


40 


45 


50 


BY, 


60 


65 


70 


75 


58 EVERYMAN 


His sight to blind, and from heaven to depart, 
Except that alms be his good friend, 
In hell for to dwell, world without end. 
Lo, yonder I see Everyman walking; 80 
Full little he thinketh on my coming; 
His mind is on fleshly lusts and his treasure, 
And great pain it shall cause him to endure 
Before the Lord Heaven King. 
Everyman, stand still; whither art thou going 85 
Thus gaily? Hast thou thy Maker forgot? 
Everyman. Why askst thou? 
Wouldest thou wete ?? 
Death. Yea, sir, I will show you; 
In great haste I am sent to thee 90 
From God out of his majesty. 
Everyman. What, sent to me? 
Death. Yea, certainly. 
‘Though thou have forgot him here, 
He thinketh on thee in the heavenly sphere, 95 
As, or we depart, thou shalt know. 
Everyman. What desireth God of me? 
Death. ‘That shall I show thee; 
A reckoning he will needs have 
Without any longer respite. 100 
Everyman. ‘To give a reckoning longer leisure I crave; 
This blind matter troubleth my wit. 
Death. On thee thou must take a long journey: 
Therefore thy book of count* with thee thou bring; 
For turn again thou cannot by no way, 105 
And look thou be sure of thy reckoning: 
For before God thou shalt answer, and show 
‘Thy many bad deeds and good but a few; 
How thou hast spent thy life, and in what wise, 
Before the chief lord of paradise. 110 
Have ado that we were in that way, 
For, wete thou well, thou shalt make none attournay.® 
Everyman. Full unready I am such reckoning to give. 
I know thee not: what messenger art thou? 


‘Know. 4Account. 5Go-between. 


EVERYMAN 


Death. Yam Death, that no man dreadeth. 
Tor every man I rest and no man spareth; 
For it is God’s commandment 


That all to me should be obedient. 


59 


115 


Everyman. O Death, thou comest when I had thee least in mind; 


In thy power it lieth me to save, 
Yet of my good will I give thee, if ye will be kind, 
Yea, a thousand pound shalt thou have, 
And defer this matter till another day. 
Death. Everyman, it may not be by no way; 
I set not by gold, silver, nor riches, 
Nor by pope, emperor, king, duke, nor princes. 
For an I would receive gifts great, 
All the world I might get; 
But my custom is clean contrary. 
I give thee no respite: come hence, and not tarry. 

Everyman. Alas, shall I have no longer respite? 

I may say Death giveth no warning: 

To think on thee, it maketh my heart sick, 

For all unready is my book of reckoning. 

But twelve year and I might have abiding, 

My counting book I would make so clear, 

That my reckoning I should not need to fear. 
Wherefore, Death, I pray thee, for God’s mercy, 
Spare me till I be provided of remedy. 

Death. ‘Thee availeth not to cry, weep, and pray: 
But haste thee lightly that you were gone the journey, 
And prove thy friends if thou can. 

For, wete thou well, the tide abideth no man, 
And in the world each living creature 
For Adam’s sin must die of nature. 

Everyman. Death, if I should this pilgrimage take, 
And my reckoning surely make, 

Show me, for saint charity, 
Should I not come again shortly? 

Death. No, Everyman; and thou be once there, 
Thou mayst never more come here, 

Trust me verily. 
Everyman. O gracious God, in the high seat celestial, 


120 


125 


130 


135 


140 


145 


150 


60 EVERYMAN 


Have mercy on me in this most need; 
Shall I have no company from this vale terrestrial 
Of mine acquaintance that way me to lead? 
Death. Yea, if any be so hardy, 
That would go with thee and bear thee company. 
Hie thee that you were gone to God’s magnificence, 
Thy reckoning to give before his presence. 
What, weenest® thou thy life is given thee, 
And thy worldly goods also? 
Everyman. I had send so, verily. 
Death. Nay, nay; it was but lent thee; 
For as soon as thou art go, 
Another awhile shall have it, and then go therefro 
Even as thou hast done. 
Everyman, thou art mad; thou hast thy wits five, 
And here on earth will not amend thy life, 
For suddenly I do come. 
Everyman. O wretched caitiff, whither shall I flee, 
‘That I might scape this endless sorrow! 
Now, gentle Death, spare me till to-morrow, 
That I may amend me 
With good advisement. 
Death. Nay, thereto I will not consent, 
Nor no man will I respite, 
But to the heart suddenly I shall smite 
Without any advisement. 
And now out of thy sight I will me hie; 
See thou make thee ready shortly, 
For thou mayst say this is the day 
That no man living may scape away. 
Everyman. Alas, I may well weep with sighs deep; 
Now have I no manner of company 
To help me in my journey, and me to keep; 
And also my writing is full unready. 
How shall I do now for to excuse me? 
I would to God I had never be gete!’ 
To my soul a full great profit it had be; 
For now I fear pains huge and great. 


*Suppose. 7Been born. 


160 


165 


170 


175 


180 


185 


190 


EVERYMAN 


The time passeth; Lord, help that all wrought; 
For though I mourn it availeth nought. 

The day passeth, and is almost a-go; 

I wot not well what for to do. 

To whom were I best my complaint to make? 
What, and I to Fellowship thereof spake, 

And showed him of this sudden chance? 

For in him is all mine affiance; 

We have in the world so many a day 

Be on good friends in sport and play. 

I see him yonder, certainly ; 

I trust that he will bear me company; 
Therefore to him will I speak to ease my sorrow. 
Well met, good Fellowship, and good morrow! 


Fellowship speaketh. Everyman, good morrow by this day. 
Sir, why lookest thou so piteously ? 
If any thing be amiss, I pray thee, me say, 
That I may help to remedy. 


Everyman. 


Yea, good Fellowship, yea, 


I am in great jeopardy. 


Fellowship. 


My true friend, show to me your mind; 


I will not forsake thee, unto my life’s end, 
In the way of good company. 


Everyman. 


Fellowship. 


That was well spoken, and lovingly. 
Sir, I must needs know your heaviness; 


I have pity to see you in any distress; 

If any have you wronged ye shall revenged be, 
Though I on the ground be slain for thee, 
Though that I know before that I should die. 


Everyman. 


Fellowship. 


Verily, Fellowship, gramercy. 
Tush! by thy thanks I set not a straw. 


Show me your grief, and say no more. 


Everyman. 


If I my heart should to you break, 


And then you to turn your mind from me, 
And would not me comfort, when you hear me speak, 
Then should I ten times sorrier be. 

Fellowship. Sir, I say as I will do in deed. 


Everyman. 


Then be you a good friend at need: 


61 


195 


200 


205 


210 


215 


220 


225 


62 EVERYMAN 


[ have tound you true here before. 
Fellowship. And so ye shall evermore; 

For, in faith, an thou go to Hell, 

I will not forsake thee by the way! 


Everyman. Ye speak like a good friend; I believe you well; 


I shall-deserve it, and I may. 
Fellowship. I speak of no deserving, by this day. 
For he that will say and nothing do 
Is not worthy with good company to go; 
Therefore show me the grief of your mind, 
As to your friend most loving and kind. 
Everyman. I shall show you how it is; 
Commanded I am to go a journey, 
A long way, hard and dangerous, 
And give a strait count without delay 
Before the high judge Adonai.® 
Wherefore I pray you, bear me company, 
As ye have promised, in this journey. 
Fellowship. ‘That is matter indeed! Promise is a duty, 
But, an I should take such a voyage on me, 
I know it well, it should be to my pain: 
Also it make me afeard, certain. 
But let us take counsel here as well as we can. 
For your words would fear a strong man. 
Everyman. Why, ye said, If I had need, 
Ye would me never forsake, quick nor dead, 
Though it were to hell truly. 
Fellowship. So I said, certainly, 
But such pleasures be set aside, thee sooth to say: 
And also, if we took such a journey, 
When should we come again? 
Everyman. Nay, never again till the day of doom. 
Fellowship. In faith, then will not I come there! 
Who hath you these tidings brought ? 
Everyman. Indeed, Death was with me here. 
Fellowship. Now, by God that all hath bought, 
If Death were the messenger, 
For no man that is living to-day 


i 8God. 


230 


235 


240 


245 


250 


255 


260 


205 


EVERYMAN 63 


1 will not go that loath journey— 
Not for the father that begat me! 
Everyman. Ye promised other wise, pardie. 270 
Fellowship. 1 wot well I say so truly; 
And yet if thou wilt eat, and drink, and make good cheer, 
Or haunt to women, the lusty company, 
I would not forsake you, while the day is clear, 
Trust me verily! 275 
Everyman. Yea, thereto ye would be ready; 
To go to mirth, solace, and play, 
Your mind will sooner apply 
Than to bear me company in my long journey. 
Fellowship. Now, in good faith, I will not that way. 280 
But an thou wilt murder, or any man kill, 
In that I will help thee with a good will! 
Everyman. O that is a simple advice indeed! 
Gentle fellow, help me in my necessity ; 
We have loved long and now I need, 285 
And now, gentle Fellowship, remember me. 
Fellowship. Whether ye have loved me or no, 
By Saint John, I will not with thee go. 
Everyman. Yet I pray thee, take the labor, and do so much for 
me 290 
To bring thee forward, for saint charity, 
And comfort me till I come without the town. 
Fellowship. Nay, an thou would give me a new gown, 
I will not a foot with thee go; 
But an you had tarried I would not have left thee so. 295 
And as now, God speed thee in thy journey, 
For from thee I will depart as fast as I may. 
Everyman. Whither away, Fellowship? will you forsake me? 
Fellowship. Yea, by my fay, to God I betake thee. 
Everyman. Farewell, good Fellowship; for this my heart is sore; 
300 
Adieu for ever, I shall see thee no more. 
Fellowship. In faith, Everyman, farewell now at the end; 
For you I will remember that parting is mourning. 
Everyman. Alack! shall we thus depart indeed? 
Our Lady, help, without any more comfort, 305 


64 EVERYMAN 


Lo, Fellowship forsaketh me*in my most need; 
For help in this world whither shall I resort? 
Fellowship herebefore with me would merry make; 
And now little sorrow for me doth he take. 

It is said, in prosperity men friends may find, 

Which in adversity be full unkind. 

Now whither for succor shall I flee, 

Since that Fellowship hath forsaken me? 

To my kinsmen I will truly, 

Praying them to help me in my necessity; 

I believe that they will do so, 

For kind will creep where it may not go. 

I will go say, for yonder I see them go. 

Where be ye now, my friends and kinsmen? 
Kindred. Here be we now at your commandment. 
Cousin. I pray you show us your intent 

In any wise, and not spare. 

Cousin. Yea, Everyman, and to us declare 

If ye be disposed to go any whither, 

For wete you well, we will live and die together. 
Kindred. In wealth and woe we will with you hold, 

For over his kin a man may be bold. 


Everyman. Gramercy, my friends and kinsmen kind. 


Now shall I show you the grief of my mind: 

I was commanded by a messenger, 

That is an high king’s chief officer ; 

He bade me to a pilgrimage to my pain, 

And I know well I shall never come again; 
Also I must give a reckoning straight, 

For I have a great enemy, that hath me in wait, 
Which intendeth me for to hinder. 


Kindred. What account is that which ye must render? 


That would I know. 

Everyman. Of all my works I must show 
How I have lived and my days spent; 
Also of ill deeds, that I have used 
In my time, since life was me lent; 
And of all virtues that I have refused. 


310 


315 


320 


325 


330 


335 


340 


EVERYMAN 


Therefore I pray you go thither with me, 
To help to make mine account, for saint charity. 
Cousin. What, to go thither? Is that the matter? 
Nay, Everyman, I had liefer fast bread and water 
All this five year and more. 
Everyman. Alas, that ever I was bore!? 
For now shall I never be merry 
If that you forsake me. 
Kindred. Ah, sir; what, ye be a merry man! 
‘Take good heart to you, and make no moan. 
But one thing I warn you, by Saint Anne, 
As for me, ye shall go alone. 
Everyman. My Cousin, will you not with me go? 


Cousin. No, by our Lady: I have the cramp in my toe. 


Trust not to me, for, so God me speed, 
I will deceive you in your most need. 
Kindred. It availeth not to us to tice.?° 
Ye shall have my maid with all my heart; 
She loveth to go to feasts, there to be nice, 
And to dance, and abroad to start: 
I will give her leave to help you in that journey, 
If that you and she may agree. 


Everyman.. Now show me the very effect of your mind. 


Will you go with me, or abide behind? 
Kindred. Abide behind? yea, that I will an I may! 

Therefore farewell until another day. 
Everyman. How should I be merry or glad? 

For fair promises to me make, 

But when I have most need, they me forsake. 

I am deceived ; that maketh me sad. 
Cousin. Cousin Everyman, farewell now, 

For verily I will not go with you; 

Also of mine own an unready reckoning 

I have to account, therefore I make tarrying. 

Now, God keep thee, for now I go. 
Everyman. Ah, Jesus, is all come hereto? 

Lo, fair words maketh fools feign; 


*Born. 10E ntice. 


65 


345 


350 


355 


360 


365 


370 


O75 


380 


66 EVERYMAN 


They promise and nothing will do certain. 
My kinsmen promised me faithfully 

For to abide with me steadfastly, 

And now fast away do they flee: 

Even so Fellowship promised me. 

What friend were best me of to provide? 
I lose my time here longer to abide. 

Yet in my mind a thing there is ;— 

All my life I have loved riches; 

If that my good now help me might, 

He would make my heart full light. 

I will speak to him in this distress.— 
Where art thou, my Goods and riches? 


385 


390 


Goods. Who calleth me? Everyman? what haste thou hast. 


I lie here in corners, trussed and piled so high, 
And in chests I am locked so fast, 
Also sacked in bags, thou mayst see with thine eye, 
I cannot stir; in packs low I lie. 
What would ye have, lightly me say. 
Everyman. Come hither, Good, in all the haste thou may, 
For of counsel I must desire thee. 
Goods. Sir, an ye in the world have trouble or adversity, 
‘That can I help you to remedy shortly. 
Everyman. It is another disease that grieveth me; 
In this world it is not, I tell thee so. 
I am sent for another way to go, 
To give a straight account general 
Before the highest Jupiter of all; 
And all my life I have had joy and pleasure in thee. 
Therefore I pray thee go with me, 
For, peradventure, thou mayst before God Almighty 
My reckoning help to clean and purify; 
For it is said ever among, 
That money maketh all right that is wrong. 
Goods. Nay, Everyman, I sing another song, 
I follow no man in such voyages; 
For an I went with thee 
‘Thou shouldst fare much the worse for me; 
For because on me thou did set thy mind, 


395 


400 


405 


410 


415 


EVERYMAN 67 


Thy reckoning I have made blotted and blind, 420 
That thine account thou cannot make truly; 
And that hast thou for the love of me. 
Everyman. ‘That would grieve me full sore, 
When I should come to that fearful answer. 
Up, let us go thither together. 425 
Goods. Nay, not so, I am too brittle, I may not endure; 
I will follow no man one foot, be ye sure. 
Everyman. Alas, I have thee loved, and had great pleasure 
All my life-days on good and treasure. 
Goods. ‘That is to thy damnation without lesing, 430 
For my love is contrary to the love everlasting. 
But if thou had me loved moderately during, 
As, to the poor give part of me, 
‘Then shouldst thou not in this dolor be, 
Nor in this great sorrow and care. 435 
Everyman. Lo, now was I deceived or I was ware, 
And all I may wyte’’ my spending of time. 
Goods. What, weenest thou that I am thine? 
Everyman. I had wend so. 
Goods. Nay, Everyman, I say no; 440 
As for a while I was lent thee, 
A season thou hast had me in prosperity ; 
My condition is man’s soul to kill; 
If I save one, a thousand I do spill; 
Weenest thou that I will follow thee? 445 
Nay, from this world, not verily. 
Everyman. I had wend otherwise. 
Goods. ‘Therefore to thy soul Good is a thief; 
For when thou art dead, this is my guise 
Another to deceive in the same wise 450 
As I have done thee, and all to his soul’s reprief. 
Everyman. ©O false Good, cursed thou be! 
Thou traitor to God, that hast deceived me, 
And caught me in thy snare. 
Goods. Marry, thou brought thyself in care, 455 


UBlame. 


68 EVERYMAN 
Whereof I am glad, 


I must needs laugh, I cannot be sad. 
Everyman. Ah, Good, thou hast had long my hearty love; 
I gave thee that which should be the Lord’s above. 
But wilt thou not go with me in deed ? 460 
I pray thee truth to say. 
Goods. No, so God me speed, 
Therefore farewell, and have good day. 
Everyman. O, to whom shall I make my moan 
For to go with me in that heavy journey ? 465 
First Fellowship said he would with me gone; 
His words were very pleasant and gay, 
But afterward he left me alone. 
‘Then spake I to my kinsmen all in despair, 
And also they gave me words fair, 470 
‘They lacked no fair speaking, 
But all forsake me in the ending. 
Then went I to my Goods that I loved best, 
In hope to have comfort, but there had I least; 
For my Goods sharply did me tell 475 
That he bringeth many into hell. 
‘Then of myself I was ashamed, 
And so I am worthy to be blamed; 
Thus may I well myself hate. 
Of whom shall I now counsel take? 480 
I think that I shall never speed 
Till that I go to my Good-Deed, 
But alas, she is so weak, 
That she can neither go nor speak; 
Yet will I venture on her now.— 485 
My Good-Deeds, where be you? 
Good-Deeds. Here I lie cold in the ground; 
‘Thy sins hath me sore bound, 
That I cannot stir. 
Everyman. O, Good-Deeds, I stand in fear; 490 
I must you pray of counsel, 
For help now should come right well. 
Good-Deeds. Everyman, I have understanding 
That ye be summoned account to make 


EVERYMAN 69 


Before Messias, of Jerusalem King; 495 
And you do by me’? that journey with you will I take. 
Everyman. ‘Therefore I come to you, my moan to make; 
I pray you, that ye will go with me. 
Good-Deeds. I would full fain, but I cannot stand verily. 
Everyman. Why, is there anything on you fall? 500 
Good-Deeds. Yea, sir, I may thank you of all; 
If ye had perfectly cheered me, 
Your book of account now full ready had be. 
Look, the books of your works and deeds eke; 
Oh, see how they lie under the feet, 505 
To your soul’s heaviness. 
Everyman. Our Lord Jesus, help me! 
For one letter here I cannot see. 
Good-Deeds. ‘There is a blind reckoning in time of distress! 
Everyman. Good-Deeds, I pray you, help me in this need, 510 
Or else I am for ever damned indeed ; 
Therefore help me to make reckoning 
Before the redeemer of all things, 
That king is, and was, and ever shall. 
Good-Deeds. Everyman, 1 am sorry of your fall, 515 
And fain would [ help you, an I were able. 
Everyman. Good-Deeds, your counsel I pray you give me. 
Good-Deeds. ‘That shall I do verily; 
Though that on my feet I may not go. 
I have a sister, that shall with you also, 520 
Called Knowledge, which shall with you abide, 
To help you to make that dreadful reckoning. 
Knowledge. Everyman, I will go with thee, and be thy guide, 
In thy most need to go by thy side. 
Everyman. In good condition I am now in every thing, 525 
And am wholly content with this good thing; 
Thanked be God my Creator. 
Good-Deeds. And when he hath brought thee there, 
Where thou shalt heal thee of thy smart, 
Then go with your reckoning and your Good-Deeds together 530 
For to make you joyful at heart 
Before the blessed ‘Trinity. 


Take my advice. 


70 EVERYMAN 


Everyman. My Good-Deeds, gramercy; 
I am well content, certainly, 
With your words sweet. 
Knowledge. Now go we together lovingly, 
To Confession, that cleansing river. 
Everyman. For joy I weep; I would we were there; 
But, I pray you, give me cognition’* 
Where dwelleth that holy man, Confession. 
Knowledge. Inthe house of salvation: 
We shall find him in that place, 
That shall us comfort by God’s grace. 
Lo, this is Confession; kneel down and ask mercy, 
For he is on good conceit with God Almighty. 


535 


540 


545 


Everyman. O glorious fountain that all uncleanness doth clarify, 


Wash from me the spots of vices unclean, 

That on me no sin may be seen; 

I come with Knowledge for my redemption, 

Repent with hearty and full contrition; 

For I am commanded a pilgrimage to take, 

And great accounts before God to make. 

Now, I pray you, Shrift, mother of salvation, 

Help my good deeds for my piteous exclamation. 
Confession. I know your sorrow well, Everyman; 

Because with Knowledge ye come to me, 

I will you comfort as well as I can, 

And a precious jewel I will give thee, 

Called penance, wise voider of adversity; 

‘Therewith shall your body chastised be, 

With abstinence and perseverance in God’s service: 

Here shall you receive that scourge of me 

Which is penance strong, that ye must endure, 

To remember thy Savior was scourged for thee 

With sharp scourges, and suffered it patiently ; 

So must thou, or thou scape that painful pilgrimage; 

Knowledge, keep him in this voyage, 

And by that time Good-Deeds will be with thee. 

But in any wise, be sure of mercy, 


137 nformation. 


550 


25 2 


560 


565 


EVERYMAN 71 


For your time draweth fast, and ye will saved be; 570 
Ask God mercy, and He will grant truly, 
When with the scourge of penance man doth him bind, 
The oil of forgiveness then shall he find. 
Everyman. ‘Thanked be God for his gracious work! 
For now I will my penance begin; 575 
This hath rejoiced and lighted my heart, 
Though the knots be painful and hard within. 
Knowledge. Everyman, look your penance that ye fulfil, 
What pain that very it to you be, 
And Knowledge shall give you counsel at will, 580 
How your accounts ye shall make clearly. 
Everyman. O eternal God, O heavenly figure, 
O way of rightwiseness, O goodly vision, 
Which descended down in a virgin pure 
Because he would Everyman redeem, 585 
Which Adam forfeited by his disobedience; 
O blessed Godhead, elect and high-divine, 
Forgive my grievous offence ; 
Here I cry thee mercy in this presence. 
O ghostly treasure, O ransomer and redeemer 590 
Of all the world, hope and conductor, 
Mirror of joy, and founder of mercy. 
Which illumineth heaven and earth thereby, 
Hear my clamorous complaint, though it late be; 
Receive my prayers; unworthy in this heavy life, 595 
Though I be, a sinner most abominable, 
Yet let my name be written in Moses’ table; 
O Mary, pray to the Maker of all thing, 
Me for to help at my ending, 
And save me from the power of my enemy, 600 
For Death assaileth me strongly; 
And, Lady, that I may be means of thy prayer 
Of your Son’s glory to be partaker, 
By the means of his passion I it crave, 
I beseech you, help my soul to save.— 605 
Knowledge, give me the scourge of penance; 
My flesh therewith shall give a quittance: 
I will now begin, if God give me grace. 


72 EVERYMAN 


Knowledge. Everyman, God give you time and space: 
Thus I bequesth you in the hands of our Savior, 610 
‘Thus may you make your reckoning sure. 
Everyman. In the name of the Holy Trinity, 
My body sore punished shall be: 
‘Take this body for the sin of the flesh; 
Also thou delightest to go gay and fresh, 615 
And in the way of damnation thou did me bring; 
Therefore suffer now strokes and punishing. 
Now of penance I will wade the water clear 
To save me from purgatory, that sharp fire. 
Good-Deeds. I thank God, now I can walk and go; 620 
And am delivered of my sickness and woe. 
Therefore with Everyman I will go, and not spare; 
His good works I will help him to declare. 
Knowledge. Now, Everyman, be merry and glad; 
Your Good-Deeds cometh now; ye may not be sad; 625 
Now is your Good-Deeds whole and sound, 
Going upright upon the ground. 
Everyman. My heart is light, and shall be evermore; 
Now will I smite faster than I did before. 
Good-Deeds. Everyman, pilgrim, my special friend, 630 
Blessed be thou without end; 
For thee is prepared the eternal glory. 
Ye have me made whole and sound, 
Therefore I will by thee in every stound."4 
Everyman. Welcome, my Good-Deeds,; now I hear thy voice, 635 
I weep for very sweetness of love. 
Knowledge. Beno more sad, but ever rejoice, 
God seeth thy living in his throne above; 
Put on this garment to thy behove,?® 
Which is wet with your tears, 640 
Or else before God you may it miss, 
When you to your journey’s end come shall. 
Everyman. Gentle Knowledge, what do you it call? 
Knowledge. It isa garment of sorrow: 
From pain it will you borrow; 645 
Contrition it is, 


Season. 16 Profit. 


EVERYMAN 


That getteth forgiveness ; 

It pleaseth God passing well. 

Good-Deeds. Everyman, will you wear it for your heal ?*¢ 
Everyman. Now blessed be Jesu, Mary’s Son! 

For now have I on true contrition. 

And let us go now without tarrying; 

Good-Deeds, have we clear our reckoning? 
Good-Deeds. Yea, indeed I have it here. 

Everyman. ‘Then I trust we need not fear; 
Now, friends, let us not part in twain. 
Knowledge. Nay, Everyman, that will we not, certain. 
Good-Deeds. Yet must thou lead with thee 
Three persons of great might. 
Everyman. Who should they be? 
Good-Deeds. Discretion and Strength they hight,?" 
And thy Beauty may not abide behind. 
Knowledge. Also ye must call to mind 

Your Five-Wits as for your counselors. 

Good-Deeds. You must have them ready at all hours. 
Everyman. How shall I get them hither ? 
Knowledge. You must call them all together, 

And they will hear you incontinent. 

Everyman. My friends, come hither and be present 

Discretion, Strength, my Five-Wits, and Beauty. 
Beauty. Here at your will we be all ready. 

What will ye that we should do? 

Good-Deeds. ‘That ye would with Everyman go, 

And help him in his pilgrimage, 

Advise you, will ye with him or not in that voyage? 
Strength. We will bring him all thither. 

To his help and comfort, ye may believe me. 
Discretion. So will we go with him all together. 
Everyman. Almighty God, loved thou be, 

I give thee laud'® that I have hither brought 


73 


650 


655 


660 


665 


676 


675 


680 


Strength, Discretion, Beauty, and Five-Wits; lack I nought; 


And my Good-Deeds, with Knowledge clear, 
All be in my company at my will here; 
I desire no more to my business. 


1sHealth. 7Are named. 18Praise, 


74 EVERYMAN 


Strength. And I, Strength, will by you stand in distress, 685 
Though thou would in battle fight.on the ground. 
Five-Wits. And though it were through the world round, 
We will not depart for sweet nor sour. 
Beauty. No more will I unto death’s hour, 
Whatsoever thereof befall. 690 
Discretion. Everyman, advise you first of all; 
Go with a good advisement and deliveration ; 
We all give you virtuous monition 
‘That all shall be well. 
Everyman. My friends, hearken what I will tell: 695 
I pray God reward you in his heavenly sphere. 
Now hearken, all that be here, 
For I will make my testament 
Here before you all present. 
In alms half my good I will give with my hands twain 700 
In the way of charity, with good intent, 
And the other half still shall remain 
In quiet to be returned there it ought to be. 
This I do in despite of the fiend of hell 
To quit out of his peril 9705 
Ever after and this day. 
Knowledge. Everyman, hearken what I say; 
Go to priesthood, I you advise, 
And receive of him in any wise 
The holy sacrament and ointment together; 710 
Then shortly see ye turn again hither; 
We will all abide you here. 
Five-Wits. Yea, Everyman, hie you that ye ready were, 
There is no emperor, king, duke, nor baron, 
‘That of God hath commission, O15 
As hath the least priest in the world being; 
For of the blessed sacraments pure and benign, 
He beareth the keys and thereof hath the cure 
For man’s redemption, it is ever sure; 
Which God for our soul’s medicine 720 
Gave us out of his heart with great pine; 
Here in this transitory life, for thee and me 
‘The blessed sacraments seven there be, 


EVERYMAN itr 


Baptism, confirmation, with priesthood good, 

And the sacrament of God’s precious flesh and blood, 725 

Marriage, the holy extreme unction, and penance; 

‘These seven be good to have in remembrance, 

Gracious sacraments of high divinity. 
Everyman. Fain would I receive that holy body 

And meekly to my ghostly father I will go. 730 
Five-Wits. Everyman, that is the best that ye can do: 

God will you to salvation bring, 

For priesthood exceedeth all other thing; 

To us Holy Scripture they do teach, 

And converteth man from sin heaven to reach; 735 

God hath to them more power given, 

Than to any angel that is in heaven; 

With five words he may consecrate 

God’s body in flesh and blood to make, | 

And handleth his maker between his hands; 740 

The priest bindeth and unbindeth all bands, 

Both in earth and in heaven ; 

Thou ministers all the sacraments seven ; 

Though we kissed thy feet thou were worthy: 

Thou art surgeon that cureth sin deadly: 745 

No remedy we find under God 

But all only priesthood. 

Everyman, God gave priests that dignity, 

And setteth them in his stead among us to be; 

Thus be they above angels in degree. 750 
Knowledge. If priests be good it so surely; 

But when Jesus hanged on the cross with great smart 

There he gave, out of his blessed heart, 

The same sacrament in great torment: 

He sold them not to us, that Lord Omnipotent. . 755 

Therefore Saint Peter the apostle doth say 

That Jesu’s curse hath all they 

Which God their Savior do buy or sell, 

Or they for any money do take or tell. 

Sinful priests giveth the sinners sake bad; 760 

Their children sitteth by other men’s fires, I have beac’ 

And some haunteth women’s company, 


26 EVERYMAN 


With unclean life, as lusts of lechery: 
‘These be with sin made blind. 
Five-Wits. I trust to God no such may we find; 
Therefore let us priesthood honor, 
And follow their doctrine for our souls’ succor: 
We be their sheep, and they shepherds be 
By whom we all be kept in surety. 
Peace, for yonder I see Everyman come, 
Which hath made true satisfaction. 
Good-Deeds. Methinketh it is he indeed. 
Everyman. Now Jesu be our alder speed.?® 
I have received the sacrament for my redemption, 
And then mine extreme unction: 
Blessed be all they that counseled me to take it! 
And now, friends, let us go without longer respite; 
I thank God that ye have tarried so long. 
Now set each of you on this rod your hand, 
And shortly follow me: 
I go before, there I would be; God be our guide. 
Strength. Everyman, we will not from you go, 
‘Till ye have gone this voyage long. 
Discretion. 1, Discretion, will bide by you also. 
Knowledge. And though this pilgrimage be never so strong, 
I will never part you fro: 
Everyman, I will be as sure by thee 
As ever I did by Judas Maccabee. 
Everyman. Alas, I am so faint I may not stand, 
My limbs under me do fold; 
Friends, let us not turn again to this land, 
Not for all the world’s gold. 
For into this cave must I creep 
And turn to the earth and there to sleep. 
Beauty. What, into this grave? alas! 
Everyman. Yea, there shall you consume more and less. 
Beauty. And what, should I smother here? 
Everyman. Yea, by my faith, and never more appear. 
In this world live no more we shall, 
But in heaven before the highest Lord of all. 


_ Best help. 


765 


779 


775 


780 


785 


790 


795 


800 


EVERYMAN 77 


Beauty. I cross out all this; adieu by Saint John; 
I take my tap in my lap and am gone.”° 
Everyman. What, Beauty, whither will ye? 
Beauty. Peace, I am deaf; I look not behind me, 
Not an thou would give me all the gold in thy chest. 805 
Everyman. Alas, Alas, whereto may I trust? 
Beauty goeth fast away hie; 
She promised with me to live and die. 
Strength. Everyman, I will thee also forsake and deny; 
Thy game liketh me not at all. 810 
Everyman. Why, then ye will forsake me all. 
Sweet Strength tarry a little space. 
Strength. Nay, sir, by the rood of grace 
I will hie me from thee fast, 
Though thou weep till thy heart brast.?4 815 
Everyman. Ye would ever bide by me, ye said. 
Strength. Yea, I have you far enough conveyed ; 
Ye be old enough, I understand, 
Your pilgrimage to take on hand; 
I repent me that I hither came. 820 
Everyman Strength, you to displease I am to blame; 
Will you break promise that is debt? 
Strength. In faith, I care not; 
Thou art but a fool to complain, 
You spend your speech and waste your brain; 825 
Go thrust thee into the ground. 
Everyman. I had wend surer I should have found. 
He that trusteth in his Strength 
She him deceiveth at the length. 
Both Strength and Beauty forsaketh me 830 
Yet they promised me fair and lovingly. 
Discretion. Everyman, I will after Strength be gone, 
As for me I will leave you alone. 
Everyman. Why, Discretion, will ye forsake me? 
Discretion. Yea, in faith, I will go from thee, 835 
For when Strength goeth before 
I follow after evermore. 


20Distaff in my apron and go (proverbial expression drawn from spinning.) 


21Break. 





78 EVERYMAN 


Everyman. Yet, I pray thee, for the love of the Trinity, 
Look in my grave once piteously. 
Discretion. Nay, so nigh will I not come. 840 
Farewell, every one! 
Everyman. O all thing faileth, save God alone; 
Beauty, Strength, and Discretion; 
For when Death bloweth his blast, 
‘They all run from me full fast. 845 
Five-Wits. Everyman, my leave now of thee I take; 
I will follow the other, for her I thee forsake. 
Everyman. Alas! then may I wail and weep, 
For I took you for my best friend. 
Five-Wits. I will no longer thee keep ; 850 
' Now farewell, and there an end. 
Everyman. ©O Jesu, help, all hath forsaken me! 
Good-Deeds. Nay, Everyman, I will bide with thee, 
I will not forsake thee indeed; 
‘Thou shalt find me a good friend at need. 855 
Everyman. Gramercy, Good-Deeds; now may I true friends see; 
‘They have forsaken me every one; 
I loved them better than my Good-Deeds alone. 
Knowledge, will ye forsake me also? 
Knowledge. Yea, Everyman, when ye to death do go: 860 
But not yet for no manner of danger. 
Everyman. Gramercy, Knowledge, with all my heart. 
Knowledge. Nay, yet I will not from hence depart, 
Till I see where ye shall be come. 
Everyman. Methinketh, alas, that I must be gone, 865 
To make my reckoning and my debts pay, 
For I see my time is nigh spent away. 
Take example, all ye that this do hear or see, 
How they that I loved best do forsake me, 
_ Except my Good-Deeds that bideth truly. 870 
Good-Deeds. All earthly things is but vanity: 
Beauty, Strength, and Discretion, do man forsake, 
Foolish friends and kinsmen, that fair spake, 
All fleeth save Good-Deeds, and that am I. 
Everyman. Have mercy on me, God most mighty; 875 
And stand by me, thou Mother and Maid, holy Mary. 


EVERYMAN 79 


Good-Deeds. Fear not, I will speak for thee. 

Everyman. Here I cry God mercy. 

Good-Deeds. Short our end, and minish our pain; 

Let us go and never come again. 880 

Everyman. Into thy hands, Lord, my soul I commend; 

Receive it, Lord, that it be not lost; 

As thou me boughtest, so me defend, 

And save me from the fiend’s boast, 

That I may appear with that blessed host 885 
That shall be saved at the day of doom. 

In manus tuas**——of might’s most 

For ever——commendo spiritum meum.** 

Knowledge. Now hath he suffered that we all shall endure; 
Vhe Good-Deeds shall make all sure. 890 
Now hath he made ending; 

Methinketh that I hear angels sing 
And make great joy and melody, 
Where Everyman's soul received shall be. 

Angel. Come, excellent elect spouse to Jesu: 895 
Hereabove thou shalt go 
Because of thy singular virtue: 

Now the soul is taken the body fro; 
Thy reckoning is crystal-clear. 
Now shalt thou into heavenly sphere. goo 
Unto the which all ye shall come 
That liveth well before the day of doom. 
Doctor. This moral men may have in mind; 
Ye hearers, take it of worth, old and young, 
And forsake pride, for he deceiveth you in the end, 905 
And remember Beauty, Five-Wits, Strength, and Discretion, 
They all at the last do Everyman forsake, 
Save his Good-Deeds, there doth he take. 
But beware, an they be small 
Before God, he hath no help at all. 910 
None excuse may be there for Everyman: 
Alas, how shall he do then? 
For after death amends may no man make, 


"Into thy hands. *I commend my soul. 


80 ROBERT SOUTHWELL 


For then mercy and pity do him forsake. 

If his reckoning be not clear when he do come, 915 
God will say——ite maledicti in ignem aeternum.’ 

And he that hath his account whole and sound, 

High in heaven he shall be crowned; 

Unto which place God bring us all thither 

‘That we may live body and soul together. 920 
Thereto help the Trinity, 

Amen, say ye, for saint charity. 


ROBE Rat OSiO Us EL Wee leebe 
1561-1595 


Robert Southwell, priest, poet, and martyr, was born in 1561, the 
third son of a prominent Catholic family in Norfolk. At an early 
age he was sent to school at Douai where he came into contact with 
Leonard Lessius of the Society of Jesus. Later he attended school 
at Paris, coming into contact with Thomas Darbyshire, one of the 
first Englishmen to become a Jesuit. It was inevitable, therefore, 
shat the young Southwell should become imbued with the desire to 
serve in the ranks of this society. He became enrolled in 1578 and 
two years later took minor orders. During the next four years he 
occupied himself in the study of philosophy and in writing verse. In 
1584 he took final orders and stood ready to begin his life’s work. 

However, in England, at almost the exact time of his ordination, a 
law was passed that proscribed anyone who had entered the Catholic 
priesthood since the first year of Elizabeth’s accession from residing 
upon English soil under penalty of death. In spite of this law South- 
well took up his work in an English mission, to be watched by the 
authorities from the beginning. In 1589 he became the confessor to 
the Countess of Arundel and passed several years of comparative 
safety under this powerful patronage, during which time he made his 
real literary beginning. Triumphs Over Death, perhaps his first seri- 
ous work, belongs to this period, as does, likewise, Notes on Theology. 
Some years later he unfortunately made the acquaintance of one Rich- 
ard Bellamy, a fervent Catholic who was suspected of efforts against 
the crown. An unhappy result of this relationship was inevitable; 
Father Southwell was executed at Tyburn in 1595. 

A deep religious fervor permeates the entire body of Southwell’s 


2*Hence, accursed, into eternal fire. 


MARY MAGDALEN’S COMPLAINT 81 


poetry, and this in an age the most lyrically passionate that English 
literature has ever known. There is about his writing, moreover, a 
quality of imaginative grace that is highly sustained and provoca- 
tively memorable. We feel his fervor and at the same time respond 
to his verse harmonies. No one can say, however, that he is without 
fault as a poetic artist; he is frequently guilty of grotesque figures, 
and, quite as frequently, of a peculiar kind of punning—both traits 
being part of the literary devices of his day. 


MARY MAGDALEN’S COMPLAINT AT CHRIST’S 
DEATH 


SITH my life from life is parted, 
Death come take thy portion, 
Who survives when life is murder’d 
Lives by mere extortion: 
All that live and not in God, 5 
Couch their life in death’s abode. 


Silly stars must needs leave shining 
When the sun is shadowed, 
Borrow’d streams refrain their running 
When head springs are hindered: 10 
One that lives by other’s breath, 
Dieth also by his death. 


O true life! sith Thou hast left me, 
Mortal life is tedious ; 

Death it is to live without Thee, 15 
Death of all most odious: 

Turn again or take me to Thee, 

Let me die or live Thou in me! 


Where the truth once was and is not, 
Shadows are but vanity; 20 
Showing want that help they cannot, 
Signs, not salves, of misery. 
Painted meat no hunger feeds, 
Dying life each death exceeds, 


82 


ROBERT SOUTHWELL 


With my love my life was nestled 
In the sun of happiness; 

From my love my life is wrested 
To a world of heaviness: 

Oh! let love my life remove, 

Sith I live not where I love! 


O my soul! that did unloose thee 
From thy sweet captivity, 
God, not I, did still possess thee, 
His, not mine, thy liberty; 
Oh! too happy thrall thou wert, 
When thy prison was his heart. 


Spiteful spear that break’st this prison, 
Seat of all felicity, 

Working thus with double treason 
Love’s and life’s delivery: 

Though my life thou draw’st away, 

Maugre thee my love shall stay. 


TIMES GO BY TURNS 


THE lopped tree in time may ‘grow again; 

Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower; 
‘The sorest wight may find release of pain, 

The driest soil such in some moist’ning shower ; 
‘Times go by turns and chances change by course, 
From foul to fair, from hap to worse. 


‘The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow, 

She draws her favors to the lowest ebb; 

Her time hath equal times to come and go, 
Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web; 
No joy so great but runneth to an end, 

No hap so hard but may in fine amend. 


25 


30 


Sp 


40 


10 


LOOK HOME 


Not always fall of leaf nor ever spring, 

No endless night yet not eternal day; 

The saddest birds a season find to sing, 

The roughest storm a calm may soon allay; 
Thus with succeeding turns God tempereth all, 
That man may hope to rise yet fear to fall. 


A chance may win that by mischance was lost; 

The well that holds no great, takes little fish; 

In some things all, in all things none are cross’d, 

Few all they need, but none have all they wish; 
~ Unmeddled joys here to no man befall, 

Who least hath some, who most hath never all. 


LOOK HOME 


RETIRED thoughts enjoy their own delights, 
As beauty doth in self-beholding eye; 
Man’s mind a mirror is of heavenly sights, 

A brief wherein all marvels summed lie, 

Of fairest forms and sweetest shapes the store, 


Most graceful all, yet thought may grace them more. 


The mind a creature is, yet can create, 
To nature’s patterns adding higher skill ; 
Of finest works wit better could the state 
If force of wit had equal power of will: 
Device of man in working hath no end; 


What thought can think another thought can mend. 


Man’s soul of endless beauties image is, 
Drawn by the work of endless skill and might; 
This skilful might gave many sparks of bliss, 
And to discern this bliss a native light; 

To frame God’s image as His worths required, 


His might, His skill, His word and will conspired. 


83 


15 


20 


10 


15 


84 


ROBERT SOUTHWELL 


All that he had His image should present, 

All that it should present he could afford, 

To that he could afford his will was bent, 
This will was follow’d with performing word; 
Let this suffice, by this conceive the rest, 


He should, he could, he would, he did the best. 


FORTUNE’S FALSEHOOD 


IN WORLDLY merriments lurketh much misery, 
Fly fortune’s subtleties in baits of happiness ; 
Shroud hooks that swallowed without recovery, 
Murder the innocent with mortal heaviness. 


She sootheth appetites with pleasing vanities, 
Till they be conquered with cloaked tyranny ; 
Then changing countenance with open enmities, 
She triumphs over them, scorning their slavery. 


With fawning flattery death’s door she openeth, 
Alluring passengers to bloody destiny ; 

In offers bountiful in proof she beggareth, 
Man’s ruins regist’ring her false felicity. 


Her hopes are fastened in bliss that vanisheth, 
Her smarts inherited with sure possession ; 
Constant in cruelty she never altereth, 

But from one violence to more oppression. 


To those that follow her favors are measured, 
As easy premises to hard conclusions ; 

With bitter corrosives her joys are seasoned, 
Her highest benefits are but illusions. 


Her ways a labyrinth of wand’ring passages, 
Fools’ common pilgrimage to cursed deities; 
Whose fond devotion and idle menages 

Are waged with weariness in fruitless drudgeries. 


20 


IO 


15 


20 


A CHILD MY CHOICE 


Blind in her favorites’ foolish election, 

Chance in her arbiter in giving dignities, 

Her choice of vicious shows most discretion, 

Sith wealth the virtuous might wrest from piety. 


To humble suppliants tyrant most obstinate, 
She suitors answereth with contrarieties ; 
Proud with petition, untaught to mitigate 
Rigor with clemency in hardest cruelties. 


Like tiger fugitive from the ambitious, 

Like weeping crocodile to scornful enemies, 
Suing for amity where she is odious, 

But to her followers forswearing courtesies. 


No wind so changeable, no sea so wavering, 

As giddy fortune in reeling vanities; 

Now mad, now merciful, now fierce, now favoring, 
In all things mutable but mutabilities. 


A CHILD MY CHOICE 


Let folly praise that fancy loves, 
I praise and love that child 

Whose heart no thought, whose tongue no word, 
Whose head no deed defiled ; 


I praise him most, I love him best, 
All praise and love is his; 
While him I love, in him [ live, 


And cannot live amiss. 


Love’s sweetest mark, land’s highest theme, 
Man’s most desired light, 

‘To love him life, to leave him death, 
‘To live in him delight. 


85 
25 


30 


35 


40 


Io 


86 


ROBERT SOUTHWELL 


He mine by gift, I his by debt, 
Thus each to other due, 

First friend he was, best friend he is, 
All times will try him true. 


Though young, yet wise; though small, yet strong; 
‘Though man, yet God he is; 
As wise he knows, as strong he can, 


As God he loves to bless. 


His knowledge rules, his strength defends, 
His love doth cherish all; 

His birth our joy, his life our light, 
His death our end of thrall. 


Alas! he weeps, he sighs, he pants, 
Yet doth his angels sing; 

Out of his tears, his sighs and throbs, 
Doth bud a joyful spring. 


Almighty babe, whose tender arms 
Can force all foes to fly, 

Correct my faults, protect my life, 
Direct me when I die! 


LIFE IS BUT LOSS 


By Force I live, in will I wish to die; 

In plaints I pass the length of ling’ring days; 
Free would my soul from mortal body fly, 

And tread the track of death’s desired ways: 
Life is but loss where death is deemed gain, 
And loathed pleasures breed displeasing pain. 


Who would not die to kill all murd’ring grieves? 
Or who would live in never-dying fears? 

Who would not wish his treasure safe from thieves, 
And quit his heart from pangs, his eyes from tears? 

Death parteth but two ever-fighting foes, 

Whose civil strife doth work our endless woes. 


15 


20 


25 


30 


Io 


PIFROSaBUTEUOSS 


Life is a wandering course to doubtful rest; 
As oft a cursed rise to damning leap, 

As happy race to win a heavenly crest ; 
None being sure what final fruits to reap: 

And who can like in such a life to dwell, 


Whose ways are strict to heaven, but wide to hell? 


Come, cruel death, why lingerest thou so long? 
What doth withhold thy dint from fatal stroke? 
Now prest I am, alas! thou dost me wrong, 
To let me live, more anger to provoke: 


Thy right is had when thou hast stopp’d my breath, 
Why shouldst thou stay to work my double death? 


If Saul’s attempt in falling on his blade 
As lawful were as eth to put in ure, 
If Samson’s lean a common law were made, 
Of Abel’s lot if all that would were sure, 
Then, cruel death, thou shouldst the tyrant play 
With none but such as wished for delay. 


Where life is loved thou ready art to kill, 
And to abridge with sudden pangs their joys; 
Where life is loathed thou wilt not work their will, 
But dost adjourn their death to their annoy. 
To some thou art a fierce unbidden guest, 
But those that crave thy help thou helpest least. 


Avaunt, O viper! I thy spite defy: 
There is a God that overrules thy force, 
Who can thy weapons to His will apply, 
And shorten or prolong our brittle course. 
I on His mercy, not thy might, rely; 
To Him I live, for Him I hope to die. 


87 


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20 


25 


30 


35 


40 


88 


ROBERT SOUTHWELL 


WHAT JOY TO LIVE 


I WAGE no war, yet peace I none enjoy; 

I hope, I fear, I fry in freezing cold; 
I mount in mirth, still prostrate in annoy; 

If all the world embrace yet nothing hold. : 
All wealth is want where chiefest wishes fail, 5 
Yea life is loathed where love may not prevail. 


For that I love I long, but that I lack; 
That other love I loathe, and that I have; 
All worldly freights to me are deadly wrack, 
Men present hap, I future hopes do crave: 10 
‘They, loving where they live, long life require, 
To live where best I love, I death desire. 


Here loan is lent for love of filthy gain; 
Most friends befriend themselves with friendship’s show; 
Here plenty peril, want doth breed disdain; 15 
Cares common are, joys faulty, short and few; 
Here honor envied, meanness is despised ; 
Sin deemed solace, virtue little prized. 


Here beauty is a bait that, swallow’d, chokes, 
A treasure sought still in the owner’s harms; 20 
A light that eyes to murdering sights provokes, 
A grace that souls enchants with mortal charms; 
A luring gain to Cupid’s fiery slights, 
A baleful bliss that damns where it delights. 


Oh! who would live so many deaths to try? 25 
Where will doth wish that wisdom doth reprove, 

Where nature craves that grace must needs deny, 
Where sense doth like that reason cannot love, 

Where best in show in final proof is worst, 

Where pleasures upshot is to die accurst ? 30 


THE NATIVITY OF CHRIST 89 


THE BURNING BABE 


As I in hoary winter’s night stood shivering in the snow, 

Surprised I was with sudden heat which made my heart to glow; 

And lifting up a fearful eye to view what fire was near, 

A pretty babe all burning bright did in the air appear, 

Who scorched with exceeding heat such floods of tears did shed, 5 

As though His floods should quench His flames with what His 
tears were fed; 

Alas! quoth He, but newly born in fiery heats of fry, 

Yet none approach to warm their hearts or feel my fire but I! 

My faultless breast the furnace is, the fuel wounding thorns; 

Love is the fire and sighs the smoke, the ashes shame and scorns; 10 

The fuel Justice layeth on, and Mercy blows the coals; 

The metal in this furnace wrought are men’s defiled souls; 

For which, as now on fire I am, to work them to their good, 

So will I melt into a bath, to wash them in my blood; 

With this He vanish’d out of sight, and swiftly shrunk away, 15 

And straight I called unto mind that it was Christmas-day. 


THE NATIVITY OF CHRIST 


BEHOLD the father is his daughter’s son, 
The bird that built the nest is hatch’d therein, 
The old of years an hour hath not outrun, 
Eternal life to live doth now begin, 
The word is dumb, the mirth of heaven doth weep, 5 
Might feeble is, and force doth faintly creep. 


O dying souls! behold your living spring! 
O dazzled eyes! behold your sun of grace} 
Dull ears attend what word this word doth bring! 
Up, heavy hearts, with joy your joy embrace! 10 
From death, from dark, from deafness, from despairs, 
This life, this light, this word, this joy repairs. 


go 


ROBERT SOUTHWELL 


Gift better than Himself God doth not know, 
Gift better than his God no man can see; 

This gift doth here the giver given bestow, 15 
Gift to this gift let each receiver be: 

God is my gift, Himself He freely gave me, 

God’s gift am I, and none but God shall have me. 


Man alter’d was by sin from man to beast ; 
Beast’s food is hay, hay is all mortal flesh; 20 
Now God is flesh, and lives in manger press’d, 
As hay the brutest sinner to refresh: 
Oh happy field wherein this fodder grew, 
Whose taste doth us from beasts to men renew! 


CHRIST’S CHILDHOOD 


TILt twelve years’ age, how Christ His childhood spent 
All earthly pens unworthy were to write; 
Such acts to mortal eyes He did present, 
Whose worth not men but angels must recite: 
No nature’s blots, no childish faults defiled, 5 
Where grace was guide, and God did play the child. 


In springing locks lay crouched hoary wit, 
In semblant young, a grave and ancient port; 
In lowly looks high majesty did sit, 
In tender tongue sound sense of sagest sort: 10 
Nature imparted all that she could teach, 
And God supplied where nature could not reach. 


His mirth of modest mien a mirror was; 
His sadness temper’d with a mild aspect; 

His eye to try each action was a glass, 15 
Whose looks did good approve and bad correct; 

His nature’s gifts, His grace, His word and deed, 

Well show’d that all did from a God proceed. 


OF THE BLESSED SACRAMENT gI 


OF THE BLESSED SACRAMENT OF THE ALTAR 


IN PASCHAL feast, the end of ancient rite, 
An entrance to never-ending grace, 
Types to the truth, dim gleams to the light, 
Performing deed presaging signs did chase: 
Christ’s final meal was fountain of our good, 5 
For mortal meat He gave immortal food. 


That which He gave He was, oh, peerless gift! 
Both God and man He was, and both He gave. 
He in His hands Himself did truly lift, 
Far off they see whom in themselves they have; 10 
‘Twelve did He feed, twelve did their feeder eat, 
He made, He dress’d, He gave, He was their meat. 


They saw, they heard, they felt Him sitting near, 
Unseen, unfelt, unheard, they Him received ; 

No diverse thing, though diverse it appear, 15 
‘Though senses fail, yet faith is not deceived; 

And if the wonder of their work be new, 

Believe the worker cause His word is true. 


Here truth belief, belief inviteth love, 
So sweet a truth love never yet enjoy’d; 20 
What thought can think, what will doth best approve, 
Is here obtain’d where no desire is void: 
The grace, the joy, the treasure here is such, 
No wit can wish, nor will embrace so much. 


Self-love here cannot crave more than it finds; 25 
Ambition to no higher worth aspire; 

The eagerest famine of most hungry minds 
May fill, yea far exceed, their own desire: 

In sum here is all in a sum express’d, 

Of which the most of every good the best. 30 


g2 


ROBERT SOUTHWELL 


To ravish eyes here heavenly beauties are; 

To win the ear sweet music’s sweetest sound ; 
To lure the taste the angels’ heavenly fare; 

To soothe the scent divine perfumes abound ; 
To please the touch He in our hearts doth bed, 


Whose touch doth cure the deaf, the dumb, the dead. 


Here to delight the will true wisdom is; 
To woo the will of every good the choice; 
For memory a mirror showing bliss, 
Here all that can both sense and soul rejoice; 
And if to all, all this it doth not bring, 
The fault is in the men, not in the thing. 


Though blind men see no light, the sun doth shine; 


Sweetcakes are sweet, though fever’d tastes deny it; 


Pearls precious are, though trodden on by swine; 
Each truth is true, though all men do not try it; 

The best still to the bad doth work the worst; 

Things bred to bliss do make the more accursed. 


The angels’ eyes, whom veils cannot deceive, 
Might best disclose that best they did discern; 
Men must with sound and silent faith receive 
More than they can by sense or reason learn; 
God’s power our proofs, His works our wit exceed, 
The doer’s might is reason of His deed. 


A body is endow’d with ghostly rights; 
A nature’s work from nature’s law is free; 
In heavenly sun lie hid eternal lights, 
Lights clear and near, yet them no eye can see; 
Dead forms a never-dying life do shroud; 
A boundless sea lies in a little cloud. 


35 


40 


45 


50 


55 


OF THE BLESSED SACRAMENT 


The God of hosts in slender host doth dwell, 
Yea, God and man with all to either due; 
That God that rules the heavens and rifled hell, 
That man whose death did us to life renew; 
That God and man that is the angels’ bliss, 
In form of bread and wine our nature is. 


Whole may His body be in smallest bread, 
Whole in the whole, yea whole in every crumb; 
With which be one or (even) ten thousand fed, 
All to each one, to all but one doth come; 
And though each one as much as all receive, 
Not one too much, nor all too little have. 


One soul in man is all in every part; 

One face at once in many mirrors shines; 
One fearful noise doth make a thousand start; 
One eye at once of countless things defines ; 

If proofs of one in many Nature frame, 
God may in stronger sort perform the same. 


God present is at once in every place, 
Yet God in every place is ever one; 
So may there be by gifts of ghostly grace, 
One man in many rooms, yet filling none; 
Sith angels may effects of bodies show, 
God angels’ gifts on bodies may bestow. 


What God as author made He alter may; 
No change so hard as making all of nought; 
If Adam framed were of slimy clay, 
Bread may to Christ’s most sacred flesh be wrought: 
He may do this that made with mighty hand 
Of water wine, a snake of Moses’s wand. 


93 


65 


70 


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80 


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go 


94 HENRY CONSTABLE 


THEVDEATH ORM OUR LADY 


WEEP, living things, of life the mother dies; 
The world doth lose the sum of all her bliss, 
The queen of earth, the empress of the skies; 
By Mary’s death mankind an orphan is: 
Let nature weep, yea, let all graces moan, 5 
Their glory, grace, and gifts die all in one. 


It was no death to her, but to her woe, 
By which her joys began, her griefs did end; 
Death was to her a friend, to us a foe, 
Life of whose lives did on her life depend: 10 
Not prey of death, but praise to death she was, 
Whose ugly shape seem’d glorious in her face. 


Her face a heaven, two planets were her eyes, 
Whose gracious light did make our clearest day; 

But one such heaven there was and lo! it dies, 15 
Death’s dark eclipse hath dimmed every ray: 

Such eyed the light thy beams untimely shine, 

‘True light sith we have lost, we crave not thine. 





HEWN Rove GO UNIS! TAC Bila 
1562-1613 


Henry Constable, convert, diplomat, and poet, was born in Notting- 
hamshire in 1562. At the age of sixteen he entered St. John’s Col- 
lege, Cambridge, but having soon afterward become a Catholic he 
departed for Paris. 

While studying in Paris he became a papal negotiator, conducting, 
among others, a mission to James VI in Edinburgh. 

In 1604, however, he returned to England, only to be confined for 
several months in the Tower on an unwarranted charge of disloyalty. 
He died in 1613. 

Constable belongs, like Bolton, to that group of Elizabethan poets 
who contributed to England’s Helicon. He published his first verse, 


TO OUR BLESSED LADY 95 


Diana, a sonnet sequence, in 1592, a volume which soon went into an 
enlarged second edition. In addition to the sonnets, he wrote four 
pastoral poems, one of which, The Shepherd’s Song of Venus and 
Adonis, is thought to have influenced Shakespeare’s Venus and Adonis. 


TO THE BLESSED SACRAMENT 
WHEN Thee, O holy sacrificed Lamb, 


In severed signs I white and liquid see, 

As in thy body slain I think on Thee, 

Which pale by shedding of Thy blood became. 

And when again I do behold the same 5 
Veiled in white to be received of me, 

‘Thou seemest in thy sindon wrapt to be 

Like to a corse, whose monument I am. 

Buried in me, unto my soul appear, 

Prison’d in earth, and banished from Thy sight, 10 
Like our forefathers who in Limbo were, 

Clear thou my thoughts, as thou didst give them light, 
And as thou others freed from purging fire 

Quench in my heart the flames of bad desire. 


TO OUR BLESSED LADY 


IN THAT, O Queen of Queens, thy birth was free 

From guilt, which others do of grace bereave, 

When in their mothers’ womb they life receive 

God as his sole-borne daughter loved thee. 

To match thee like thy birth’s nobility, 5 
He thee His Spirit for thy spouse did leave 

Of whom thou didst His only Son conceive, 

And so wast linked to all the Trinity. 

Cease then, O Queens who earthly crowns do wear, 

To glory in the pomp of worldly things; 10 
If men such high respect unto you bear 

Which daughters, wives, and mothers are of Kings, 
What honor should unto that Queen be done 

Who had your God for Father, Spouse and Son! 


96 EDMUND BOLTON 


EDMUND BOLTON 
c. 1575—e. 1633 


Edmund Bolton, critic, historian, and poet, was born in Leicester- 
shire about 1575. He studied at Trinity Hall, Cambridge, later 
going to London to study law. 

While engaged in this study, he became associated with Raleigh, 
Constable, Spenser, Sidney, and other poets of his day, in the publi- 
cation of the miscellany, England’s Helicon. Such was his poetic 
talent as indicated by his contributions to this work that several influ- 
ential courtiers, among them the Duke of Buckingham, tried to ad- 
vance his fortunes, but because of his faith, to which he firmly 
adhered, nothing ever came of their efforts. 

The last years of his life seem to have been spent in a vain strug- 
gle with poverty. He was repeatedly confined in debtors’ prisons, his 
liability to confinement being increased by official prejudice against his 
religious belief. His death is generally understood to have occurred 
about 1633. 

Besides his early poems, he wrote The Elements of Armories, 
translated the Histories of Florus, and composed his famous Hyper- 
critica, one of the best of the early critical essays. 


A PALINODE 


AS WITHERETH the primrose by the river, 
As fadeth the summer’s sun from the gliding fountains, 
As vanisheth the light-blown bubble ever, 
As melteth snow upon the mossy mountains: 
So melts, so vanisheth, so fades, so withers, 5 
‘The rose, the shine, the bubble, and the snow, 
Of praise, pomp, glory, joy, which short life gathers, 
Fair praise, vain pomp, sweet glory, brittle joy. 
‘The withered primrose by the mourning river, 
‘The faded summer’s sun from weeping fountains, 10 
‘The light-blown bubble vanished for ever, 
‘The molten snow upon the naked mountains, 
Are emblems that the treasures we uplay, 
Soon wither, vanish, fade, and melt away. 


A PALINODE 97 


For as the snow, whose lawn did overspread 15 
Th’ ambitious hills, which giant-like did threat 
To pierce the heaven with their aspiring head, 
Naked and bare doth leave their craggy seat; 
Whenas the bubble, which did empty fly, 
The dalliance of the undiscerned wind, 20 
On whose calm rolling waves it did rely, 
Hath shipwrack made, where it did dalliance find; 
And when the sunshine which dissolved the snow, 
Colored the bubble with a pleasant vary, 
And made the rathe and timely primrose grow, 25 
Swarth clouds withdrawn, which longer time do tarry: 
O what is praise, pomp, glory, joy, but so 
As shine by fountains, bubbles, flowers, or snow? 


PHILIP MASSINGER 
1584-1639 


Philip Massinger, convert, poet, and dramatist, was born in Salis- 
bury in 1584. He matriculated at St. Alban Hall, Oxford, but left 
in 1606 without a degree. It was about this time that he entered the 
Catholic Church. 

Leaving Oxford he went to London. At first he worked with a 
number of the established dramatists of the time as collaborator. 
Among them were Dekkar, Beaumont, and Fletcher. Later he set 
out for himself and by 1623 had begun to produce plays of his own 
unaided composition. 

Among his first plays, written alone, the most noteworthy are The 
Parliament of Love, The Bondman, and The Renegado. Of his later 
works, probably the best are The Great Duke of Florence, The Maid 
of Honour, The Guardian, and A New Way to Pay Old Debts. The 
best play during the days of his collaboration was written in conjunc- 
tion with Thomas Dekkar. This is The Virgin-Martyr, a brief selec- 
tion from which is given below. 

Massinger’s plays are all of an obvious morality. In tradition he 
is a follower of Shakespeare, but, while he is by no means undis- 
tinguished, his poetical range is small and his style is not entirely free 
from bombast. 


98 PHILIP MASSINGER 


From THE VIRGIN-MARTYR 


ACT I. SCENE I 


Dorothea. My book and taper. 
Angelo. Here, most holy mistress. 


Dor. ‘Thy voice sends forth such music, that I never 


Was ravished with a more celestial sound. 
Were every servant in the world like thee, 
So full of: goodness, angels would come down 
To dwell with us: thy name is Angelo 
And like that name thou art; get thee to rest, 
Thy youth with too much watching is opprest. 
Ang.. No, my dear lady, I could weary stars, 
And force the wakeful moon to lose her eyes, 
By my late watching, but to wait on you. 
When at your prayers you kneel before the altar, 
Methinks I’m singing with some quire in heaven, 
So blest I hold me in your company: 
Therefore, my most loved mistress, do not bid 
Your boy, so serviceable, to get hence; 
For then you break his heart. 
Dor. Benigh me still, then: 
In golden letters down I'll set that day, 
Which gave thee to me. Little did I hope 
Tro meet such worlds of comfort in thyself, 
This little, pretty body ; when I, coming 
Forth of the temple, heard my beggar-boy 
My sweet-faced, godly beggar-boy, crave an. alms, 
Which with glad hand I gave, with lucky hand !— 


And, when I took thee home, my most chaste bosom, 


Methought, was fill’d with no hot wanton fire, 
But with a holy flame, mounting since higher, 
On ‘wings-of cherubims, than it did before. 
Ang. Proud am I, that my lady’s modest eye 
So likes so poor a servant. 
Dor. I have offer’d 
Handfuls of gold but to behold thy parents. 
I would leave kingdoms, were I queen of some, 


Io 


15 


20 


25 


30 


35 


THE VIRGIN-MARTYR 99 


To dwell with thy good father; for, the son 

Bewitching me so deeply with his presence, 

He that begot him must do’t ten times more. 

I pray thee, my sweet boy, shew me thy parents; 

Be not ashamed. 40 
Ang. Iam not: I did never 

Know who my mother was; but, by yon palace, 

Fill’d with bright heavenly courtiers, I dare assure you, 

And pawn these eyes upon it, and this hand, 

My father is in heaven: and, pretty mistress, 45 

If your illustrious hourglass spend his sand, 

No worse than yet it does; upon my life 

You and I both shall meet my father there, 

And he shall bid you welcome. 
Dor. A blessed day! 50 

We all long to be there, but lose the way. 


TAME SSE TRL Y 
1596—1666 


James Shirley, convert, poet, and dramatist, was born in London 
in 1596. He attended the Merchant Taylors’ School and later en- 
tered St. John’s College, Oxford. He took his degree, however, at 
Catherine Hall, Cambridge, about 1618. He finally proceeded M.A. 
and took orders, becoming for a time a minister in Hertfordshire. Be- 
tween 1623 and 1625 he acted as Master of St. Alban’s Grammar 
School, having at some time previous entered the Catholic Church. 
About 1625 he went to London, where he began his career as a dra- 
matist. Between 1626 and the closing of the theater in 1642 there ap- 
peared a succession of plays by him, the most representative of them 
being, perhaps, The Maid’s Revenge, The Gamester, Imposture, The 
Cardinal, The Sisters, The Traitor, and The Constant Maid. 

Shirley’s plays, although written during one of the corrupt periods 
of the theater, are singularly chaste. They reflect, naturally, the 
ideas uppermost in the English consciousness at the time, but in a 
manner decidedly at variance with that of his contemporaries. In 
structure Shirley was a follower of the best tradition, and his style 
is at once highly sustained and of a lofty cadence. 

He died in 1666, probably during the London fire. 


100 


JAMES SHIRLEY 


SONG 


O FLy, my soul! what hangs upon 
Thy drooping wings, 
And weighs them down 

With love of gaudy mortal things? 


‘The sun is now i’ the east; each shade, 
As he doth rise, 
Is shorter made, 

‘That earth may lessen to our eyes. 


O, be not careless then and play 
Until the star of peace 
Hides all his beams in dark recess. 

Poor pilgrims needs must lose their way 
When all the shadows do increase. 


VICTOR-VICTIM 


THE glories of our blood and state 
Are shadows, not substantial things; 
‘Their is no armor against fate; 
Death lays his icy hand on kings: 
Scepter and crown 
Must tumble down, 
And in the dust be equal made 
With the poor crooked scythe and spade. 


Some men with swords may reap the field, 
And plant fresh laurels where they kill; 
But their strong nerves at last must yield, 
They tame but one another still: 
Early or late 
They stoop to fate 
And must give up their murmuring breath 
When they, pale captives, creep to death. 


IO 


10 


15 


VICTOR-VICTIM IO} 


The garlands wither on your brow, 
Then boast no more your mighty deeds; 
Upon Death’s purple altar now 
See where the victor-victim bleeds: 20 
Your heads must come 
To the cold tomb; 
Only the actions of the just 
Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. 


WILLIAM HABINGTON 
1605—1654 


William Habington, historian and poet, was born of a noble fam- 
ily of Worcestershire in 1605. At a suitable age he was sent to study 
at St. Omer’s Jesuit College in France. Later he pursued his studies 
in Paris. For a time he thought of entering the Society of Jesus, 
but not being able quite to make up his mind he finally returned to 
England, there to study with his father and to prepare himself for 
the position of landed proprietor that was naturally his. 

Not long after his return he met Lucy Herbert, daughter of Lord 
Powis, a gentleman related to the Herbert and Percy families. From 
this time on Habington’s life is but the story of his work. A mar- 
riage with Lucy Herbert was not immediately possible, partly owing 
to disparity in rank, and partly, we may believe, because of insufh- 
ciency of fortune. Hence Habington sought to console himself in 
verse. ‘The result was Castara, a series of poems in which is traced 
the whole story of the lovers’ relationship. “The marriage was finally 
solemnized, however, sometime between 1630 and 1633, and the 
latter part of the poem Castara extols marriage. 

By 1640 the poet had turned to the study of history, begun under 
the tutelage of his father, publishing in that year the History of 
Edward IV, King of England at the instigation of King Charles. 
The same year saw the appearance of the Queene of Arragon, a 
drama of no little poetic power. “The next year brought out his 
Observations Upon History, his last literary work. He died in 1654. 

There can be little doubt that Castara is one of the most exquisite 
of seventeenth-century poems. It has a high seriousness of tone, a 
purity of concept, and a grace of expression that make it memorable. 


Io2 


Fear. 


Hope. 


Fear. 


Hope. 


Fear. 


Hope. 


WILLIAM HABINGTON 


A DIALOGUE 
BETWEEN HOPE AND FEAR 


CueEckK thy forward thoughts! and know 
Hymen only joins their hands, 
Who, with even paces go, 
She, in gold; He, rich in lands! 


But Castara’s purer fire, 
When it meets a noble flame, 
Shuns the smoke of such desire! 


Joins with love, and burns the same. 


Yet, obedience must prevail! 
They who o’er her actions sway, 
Would have her in th’ Ocean sail; 
And contemn thy Narrow Sea! 


Parents’ laws must bear no weight 
When they happiness prevent, 
But our sea is not so strait; 
But it room hath for Content! 


‘Thousands hearts, as victims, stand 
At the altar of her eyes! 

And will partial She command 
Only thine for sacrifice? 


Thousand victims must return! 
She, the purest will design. 
Choose, Castara! which shall burn? 
Choose the purest, that is, mine! 


Io 


15 


20 


UPON CUPID’S DEATH AND BURIAL 103 


TO CUPID 


UPON A DIMPLE IN CASTARA’S CHEEK 


NIMBLE Boy! in thy warm flight, 
What cold tyrant dimmed thy sight? 
Hadst thou eyes, to see my Fair, 
Thou wouldst sigh thyself to air! 
Fearing to create this one, 5 
Nature had herself undone! 
But if you, when this you hear, 
Fall down, murdered through your ear, 
Beg of Jove, that you may have, 
In her cheek, a dimpled grave! ice) 
Lily, rose, and violet, 
Shall the perfumed hearse beset ; 
While a beauteous sheet of lawn, 
O’er the wanton corpse is drawn: 
And all Lovers use this breath, 15 
“Here lies Cupid, blest in death!” 


UPON CUPID’S DEATH AND BURIAL 
IN CASTARA’S CHEEK 


Cupip’s DEAD! Who would not die 
To b’ interred so near her eye! 
Who would fear the sword, to have 
Such an alabaster grave! 
O’er which two bright tapers burn, 5 
To give light to the beauteous urn. 
At the first, Castara smiled, 
Thinking Cupid her beguiled, 
Only counterfeiting death: 
But when she perceived his breath 10 
Quite expired, the mournful Girl, 
To entomb the Boy in pearl, 
Wept so long, till piteous Jove, 
From the ashes of his Love, 


104 


WILLIAM HABINGTON 


Made ten thousand Cupids rise; 
But confined them to her eyes: 
Where they yet, to show they lack 
No due sorrow, still wear black! 
But the blacks so glorious are, 
Which they mourn in, that the fair 
Quire of stars look pale and fret; 
Seeing themselves outshined by jet. 


THE DESCRIPTION OF CASTARA 


Like the violet, which alone 
Prospers in some happy shade, 
My Castara lives unknown! 
To no looser eye betrayed. 
For she ’s to herself untrue, 
Who delights i’ th’ public view. 


Such her beauty, as no arts 
Have enriched with borrowed grace; 
Her high birth no pride imparts, 
For she blushes in her place. 
Folly boasts a glorious blood! 
She is noblest, being good! 


Cautious, she knew never yet 
What a wanton courtship meant! 
Nor speaks loud, to boast her wit: 
In her silence, eloquent! 
Of herself survey she takes; 
But ‘tween men no difference makes! 


She obeys, with. speedy will, 
Her grave parents’ wise commands. 
And so innocent! that ill 
She nor acts, nor understands! 
Women’s feet run still astray, 
If once to ill they know the way, 


15 


20 


10) 


15 


20 


TO CASTARA PRAYING 


She sails by that rock, the Court; 
Where, oft, Honor splits her mast: 
And Retiredness thinks the port, 
Where her frame may anchor cast. 
Virtue safely cannot sit, 


Where Vice is enthroned for Wit. 


She holds that day’s pleasure best, 
Where Sin waits not on Delight. 
Without Mask, or Ball, or Feast; 
Sweetly spends a winter’s night. 
O’er that darkness, whence is thrust, 
Prayer and Sleep oft govern Lust. 


She, her throne makes Reason climb; 
While wild Passions captive lie; 
And, each article of time, 
Her pure thoughts to Heaven fly! 
All her vows religious be; 
And her love, she vows to me! 


TO CASTARA PRAYING 


I saw Castara pray, and from the sky 

A winged legion of bright angels fly 

To catch her vows, for fear her virgin prayer 
Might chance to mingle with impurer air. 
To vulgar eyes, the sacred truth I write, 
May seem a fancy. But the eagles sight 
Of saints and poets, miracles oft view, 
Which to dull heretics appear untrue. 

Fair zeal begets such wonders. O divine 
And purest beauty; let me thee enshrine 
In my devoted soul, and from thy praise, 
T’enrich my garland, pluck religious bays. 


Shine thou the star by which my thought shall move, 


Best subject of my pen, queen of my love. 


105 


25 


30 


35 


40 


10 


196 


WILLIAM HABINGTON 


NON NOBIS DOMINE 


No MARBLE statue nor high 

Aspiring pyramid be raised 

To lose its head within the sky! 

What claim have I to memory? 
God, be Thou only praised! 


Thou in a moment canst defeat 

The mighty conquests of the proud, 

And blast the laurels of the great. 

Thou canst make brightest glory set 
Oth’ sudden in a cloud. 


How can the feeble works of art 


Hold out ’gainst the assaults of storms? 


Or how can brass to him impart 
Sense of surviving fame, whose heart 
Is now resolv’d to worms? 


Blind folly of triumphing pride! 

Eternity, why buildst thou here? 

Dost thou not see the highest tide 

Its humbled stream in the ocean hide, 
And ne’er the same appear? 


‘That tide which did its banks o’erflow, 
As sent abroad by the angry sea 
‘To level vastest buildings low, 
And all our trophies overthrow, 
Ebbs like a thief away. 


And thou, who to preserve thy name, 

Leav’st statues in some conquered land! 

How will posterity scorn fame, 

When the idol shall receive a maim, 
And lose a foot or hand? 


10 


15 


20 


25 


30 


NOX NOCTI INDICAT SCIENTIAM 107 


How wilt thou hate thy wars when he 

Who only for his hire did raise 

Thy counterfeit in stone; and be 
Perhaps thought worthier praise? 


No laurel wreath about my brow! 35 
To Thee, my God, all praise, whose law 
The conquer’d doth and conqueror bow! 
For both dissolve to air if Thou 
Thy influence but withdraw. 


NOX NOCTI INDICAT SCIENTIAM 


WHEN I survey the bright 
Celestial sphere, 
So rich with jewels hung that night 
Doth like an Ethiop bride appear, 


My soul her wings doth spread 5 
_ And heavenward flies, 

The Almighty’s mysteries to read 
In the large volume of the skies. 


For the bright firmament 
Shoots forth no flame 10 
So silent, but is eloquent 
In speaking the Creator’s name. 


No unregarded star 
Contracts its light 
Into so small a character, 15 
Removed far from our human sight, 


But if we steadfast look 
We shall discern 
In it, as in some holy book, 
How man may heavenly knowledge learn. 20 


108 


WILLIAM DAVENANT 


It tells the conqueror 
That far-stretched power 
Which his proud dangers traffic for 
Is but the triumph of an hour; 


That from the farthest North, 
Some nation may, 
Yet undiscovered, issue forth, 
And o’er his new-got conquest sway ; 


Some nation yet shut in 
With hills of ice 
May be let out to scourge his sin, 
Till they shall equal him in vice. 


And then they likewise shall 
Their ruin have; 
For as yourselves your empires fall, 
And every kingdom hath a grave. 


Thus those celestial fires, 
Though seeming mute, 
The fallacy of our desires 
And all the pride of life confute :— 


For they have watched since first 
The world had birth; 

And found sin in itself accursed, 
And nothing permanent on earth. 


Wi TAU DAA Nace NIN bel! 


1606—1668 


25 


30 


i 


40 


Sir William Davenant, convert, dramatist, and poet laureate, was 
born in Oxford about 1606. He attended school at All Saints, Ox- 
ford, and afterwards entered Lincoln College. 

In 1628 he commenced his career as a playwright, and during the 
next eight years he remained in constant attendance upon, the court, 


PRAISE 10g 


where he seems to have been in special favor. In 1638 (following 
the death of Ben Jonson) he was appointed poet laureate. 

His position at court continued unbroken until the defeat of 
Charles I, when Davenant was forced to take refuge in France. It 
was during his residence there that he was received into the Catholic 
Church, some time during 1646. 

After the Restoration he was patronized by Charles II and con- 
tinued his writing. Although his principal work was done in the 
drama, not only as playwright, but also as manager—thirty plays 
having been produced by his pen and two improvements having been 
made by him as theater-manager, the introduction of women players 
and the innovation of moveable scenery,—yet he composed a con- 
siderable body of poetry. And it is the poetry, particularly Gondibert 
and Madagascar, upon which his value as a man of letters rests for 
us, because in this work, written for the most part in heroic stanzas, 
he shadows forth something of the tendencies that were to culminate 
in Dryden and Pope. 


PRAISE 


PRAISE is devotion fit for mighty minds 
The diff ring world’s agreeing sacrifice ; 

Where Heaven divided faiths united finds: 
But prayer in various discord upward flies. 


For Prayer the ocean is where diversely 5 
Men steer their course, each to a sev’ral coast; 

Where all our interests so discordant be 
That half beg winds by which the rest are lost. 


By Penitence when we ourselves forsake, 

Tis but in wise design on piteous Heaven; 10 
In praise we nobly give what God may take, 

And are, without a beggar’s blush, forgiven. 


Its utmost force, like powder’s is unknown; 
And though weak kings excess of praise may fear, 

Yet when ’tis here, like powder dangerous grown, 15 
Heaven’s vault receives what would the palace tear. 


TIO RICHARD CRASHAW 


SONG 


Whuy dost thou seem to boast, vainglorious sun? 

Why should thy bright complexion make thee proud ? 
Think but how often since thy race begun 

Thou wert eclipsed, then blush behind a cloud. 


Or why look you, fair Empress of the night, 5 
So big upon’t, when you at full appear? 

Remember yours is but.a borrowed light, 
Then shrink with paleness in your giddy sphere. 


Jf neither sun nor moon can justify 

Their pride, how ill it women then befits 10 
That are on earth but ignes fatui 

That lead poor men to wander from their wits. 


RWC RVATRAD CROAT S ECA) 
c. 1612—-1649 


Richard Crashaw, student, convert, exile, and poet, was born in 
London of Puritan parents in 1612. His early education was ob- 
tained at the famous Charterhouse School. He entered Cambridge 
in 1631. 

His first publication occurred in 1634 when the University brought 
out his Epigrammatum Sacrorum Liber, a collection of some two 
hundred Latin epigrams. Not long afterward appeared his Wishes 
to His Mistress. In 1636 Crashaw became a member of Peterhouse, 
where he composed many of his poems. 

The writing of St. Teresa coming to his notice, he turned to that 
mystical source for help during the powerful increase of Puritan 
domination over the English universities. ‘There can be but small 
doubt that St. Teresa’s writing was one of the most powerful agen- 
cies in his final adoption of Catholicism, although the exact time of his 
conversion is in question. 

In 1643 Parliament presented the Solemn League and Covenant to 
all fellows in the universities. Naturally Crashaw, entertaining the 
ideas that had come to him, could not in conscience sign it. So he 


TO THE NAME ABOVE EVERY NAME IiI 


was obliged, after a residence of some twelve years, to leave the only 
home he knew. It is said that he lived for a while at Oxford, but we 
know that he must have gone up to London later, for his first vol- 
ume of poems, Steps to the Temple with Other Delights to the 
Muses, was issued there in 1646. At all events, we can be certain, 
from the nature of this book, that he had become Catholic, a step 
which was, perforce, the end of his career as a student in England. 

He proceeded to Paris, where he was discovered in poverty by the 
poet Abraham Cowley, whom he had known at Cambridge. Cowley 
introduced him into the service of the exiled English Queen, Henri- 
etta Maria. He remained in Paris several years, during which time 
he wrote a number of his religious poems, particularly the Carmen 
Deo Nostro. 

It was not long, however, before the sort of thing that was ex- 
pected of him in the circle of which he had become an inmate, palled 
upon him, and he journeyed to Rome, there to become the secretary 
of Cardinal Palotta, then Governor of Rome. Finally, because he 
was not fit for the life of political activity that of necessity went on 
about him, he was appointed by the governor as sub-canon of the 
basilica church at Loretto. While making the journey to his new 
appointment in the summer of 1649, he contracted a fever and was 
shortly dead. 

His place is an honored one in English literature. Mystical, in- 
tense, learned in the scholarship of his day, destined to a life of 
suffering, it was inevitable that when he turned to poetry for surcease 
he should achieve distinction. 


TO THE NAME ABOVE EVERY NAME, 
THE NAME OF JESUS 


A HYMN 


I stnc the Name which none can say 

But touched with interior ray: 

The name of our new peace: our good: 

Our bliss: and supernatural blood: 

‘The name of all our lives and loves. 5 
Hearken, and help, ye holy doves! 

The high-born brood of Day; you bright 

Candidates of blissful light, 

The heirs elect of Love, whose names belong 

Unto the everlasting life of song; 10 
All ye wise souls, who in the wealthy breast 

Of this unbounded name, build your warm nest. 


112 RICHARD CRASHAW 


Awake, my glory, Soul (if such thou be, 
And that fair word at all refer to thee), 
Awake and sing, 
And be all wing; 
Bring hither thy whole self; and let me see 


What of thy parent Heaven yet speaks in thee. 


O thou art poor 
Of noble powers, I see, 
And full of nothing else but empty me: 
Narrow, and low, and infinitely less 
Than this great morning’s mighty business. 
One little world or two 
(Alas!) will never do; 
We must have store. 
Go, Soul, out of thyself, and seek for more. 
Go and request 
Great Nature for the key of her huge chest 
Of Heavens, the self-involving set of spheres 


(Which dull mortality more feels than hears). 


Then rouse the nest 
Of nimble Art, and traverse round 
The airy shop of soul-appeasing sound: 
And beat a summons in the same 
All-sovereign name, 
‘To warn each several kind 
And shape of sweetness, be they such 
As sigh with supple wind 
Or answer artful touch; 
‘That they convene and come away 


To wait at the love-crowned doors of this illustrious day. 
Shall we dare this, my Soul? we'll do’t and bring 


No other note for ’t, but the name we sing. 


Wake lute and harp, and every sweet-lipped thing 


That talks with tuneful string; 
Start into life and leap with me 
Into a hasty fit-tuned harmony. 
Nor must you think it much 
T’obey my bolder touch: 


15 


Sar 


25 


30 


Sp, 


40 


45 


50 


TO THE NAME ABOVE EVERY NAME 1 


I have authority in Love’s name to take you, 
And to the work of Love this morning wake you. 
Wake, in the name 
Of Him Who never sleeps, all things that are, 
Or, what’s the same, 55 
Are musical ; 
Answer my call 
And come along; 
Help me to meditate mine immortal song. 
Come, ye soft ministers of sweet sad mirth, 60 
Bring all your household-stuff of Heaven on earth; 
O you, my Soul’s most certain wings, 
Complaining pipes, and prattling strings, 
Bring all the store 
Of sweets you have; and murmur that you have no more. 65 
Come, ne’er to part, 
Nature and Art! 
Come; and come strong, 
To the conspiracy of our spacious song. 
Bring all the powers of praise, 70 
Your provinces of well-united worlds can raise; 
Bring all your lutes and harps of Heaven and Earth; 
Whate’er co-operates to the common mirth: 
Vessels of vocal joys, 
Or you, more noble architects of intellectual noise, 75 
Cymbals of Heaven, or human spheres, 
Solicitors of souls or ears; 
And when you are come, with all 
That you can bring or we can call: 
O may you fix 80 
For ever here, and mix 
Yourselves into the long 
And everlasting series of a deathless song; 
Mix all your many worlds above, 
And loose them into one of love. 85 
Cheer thee my heart! 
For thou too hast thy part 
And place in the great throng 
Of this unbounded all-embracing song. 


114 RICHARD CRASHAW 


Powers of my soul, be proud! 

And speak loud 
To all the dear-bought Nations this redeeming Name, 
And in the wealth of one rich word, proclaim 
New similes to Nature. May it be no wrong, 
Blest Heavens, to you and your superior song, 
That we, dark sons of dust and sorrow, 

A while dare borrow 
The name of your delights, and our desires, 
And fit it to so far inferior lyres. 
Our murmurs have their music too, 
Ye mighty Orbs, as well as you; 

Nor yields the noblest nest 
Of warbling Seraphim to the ears of Love, 
A choicer lesson than the joyful breast 

Of a poor panting turtle-dove. 
And we, low worms, have leave to do 


The same bright business (ye Third Heavens) with you. 


Gentle spirits, do not complain! 
We will have care 
To keep it fair, 
And send it back to you again. 
Come, lovely Name! Appear from forth the bright 
Regions of peaceful light; 
Look from Thine Own illustrious home, 
Fair King of names, and come: 
Leave all Thy native glories in their gorgeous nest, 
And give Thy Self a while the gracious Guest 
Of humble souls, that seek to find 
The hidden sweets 
Which man’s heart meets 
When Thou art Master of the mind. 
Come lovely Name; Life of our hope! 
Lo, we hold our hearts wide ope! 
Unlock Thy cabinet of Day, 
Dearest Sweet, and come away. 
Lo, how the thirsty lands 


Gasp for Thy golden showers! with long-stretch’d hands. 


go 


95 


100 


105 


110 


115 


120 


125 


TO THE NAME ABOVE EVERY NAME 


Lo, how the laboring Earth 
That hopes to be 
All Heaven by Thee, 
Leaps at Thy birth! 
The attending World, to wait Thy rise, 
First turn’d to eyes; 
And then, not knowing what to do, 
Turn’d them to tears, and spent them too. 
Come royal Name; and pay the expense 
Of all this precious patience; 
O come away 
And kill the death of this delay! 
O see so many worlds of barren years 
Melted and measured out in seas of tears: 
O see the weary lids of wakeful Hope 
(Love’s eastern windows) all wide ope 
With curtains drawn, 
To catch the day-break of Thy:dawn. 
O dawn at last, long-look’d for Day! 
Take Thine own wings and come away. 
Lo, where aloft it comes! It comes, among 
The conduct of adoring spirits, that throng 
Like diligent bees, and swarm about it. 
O they are wise, 
And know what sweets are suck’d from out it: 
It is the hive, 
By which they thrive, 
Where all their hoard of honey lies. 
Lo, where it comes, upon the snowy Dove's 
Soft back; and brings a bosom big with loves; 
Welcome to our dark world, Thou womb of Day! 
Unfold thy fair conceptions, and display 
The birth of our bright joys, O Thou compacted 
Body of blessings: Spirit of souls extracted! 
O dissipate Thy spicy powers, 
(Cloud of condenséd sweets) and break upon us 
In balmy showers! 
O fill our senses, and take from us 
All force of so profane a fallacy, 


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135 


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116 RICHARD CRASHAW 


To think ought sweet but that which smells of Thee! 
Fair, flowery Name, in none but Thee 
And Thy nectareal fragrancy, 
Hourly there meets 
An universal synod of all sweets; 
By whom it is definéd thus, 
That no perfume 
For ever shall presume 
To pass for odoriferous, 
But such alone whose sacred pedigree 
Can prove itself some kin (sweet Name!) to Thee. 
Sweet Name, in Thy each’ syllable 
A thousand Blest Arabias dwell; 
A thousand hills of frankincense; 
Mountains of myrrh, and beds of spices 
And ten thousand Paradises, 
The soul that tastes Thee takes from thence. 
How many unknown worlds there are 
Of comforts, which Thou hast in keeping! 
How many thousand mercies there 
In Pity’s soft lap lie a-sleeping! 
Happv he who has the art 
To awake them, 
And to take them 
Home, and lodge them in his heart. 
O that it were as it was wont to be! 
When Thy old friends of fire, all full of Thee, 
Fought against frowns with smiles; gave glorious chase 
To persecutions; and against the face 
Of Death and fiercest dangers, durst with brave 
And sober pace, march on to meet A GRAVE. 
On their bold breasts, about the world they bore Thee, 
And to the teeth of Hell stood up to teach Thee, 
In center of their inmost souls, they wore Thee; 


Where racks and torments strived, in vain, to reach Thee. 


Little, alas thought they 

Who tore the fair breasts of Thy friends, 
Their fury but made way 

For Thee, and served them in Thy glorious ends. 


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NEW YEAR’S DAY 


What did their weapons but with wider pores 
Enlarge Thy flaming-breasted lovers, 
More freely to transpire 
‘That impatient fire, 
The heart that hides Thee hardly covers? 
What did their weapons but set wide the doors 
For Thee? fair, purple doors, of Love’s devising; 
The ruby windows which enrich’d the East 
Of Thy so oft-repeated rising! 
Each wound of theirs was Thy new morning, 
And re-enthroned Thee in Thy rosy nest, 
With blush of Thine Own blood Thy day adorning: 


It was the wit of Love o’erflowed the bounds 


Of Wrath, and made Thee way through all those wounds. 


Welcome, dear, all-adored Name! 
For sure there is no knee 
That knows not Thee: 
Or, if there be such sons of shame, 
Alas! what will they do 
When stubborn rocks shall bow 
And hills hang down their heaven-saluting heads 
To seek for humble beds 
Of dust, where in the bashful shades of Night 
Next to their own low Nothing, they may lie, 
And couch before the dazzling light of Thy dread majesty. 
They that by Love’s mild dictate now 
Will not adore Thee, 
Shall then, with just confusion bow 


And break before Thee. 


NEW YEAR’S DAY 


Rise, thou best and brightest morning! 
Rosy with a double red; 

With thine own blush thy cheeks adorning, 
And the dear drops this day were shed. 


All the purple pride that laces 
The crimson curtains of thy bed, 


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118 


RICHARD CRASHAW 


Gilds thee not with so sweet graces, 
Nor sets thee in so rich a red. 


Of all the fair cheek’d flowers that fill thee, 
None so fair thy bosom strows, 

As this modest maiden lily 
Our sins have shamed into a rose. 


Bid thy golden god, the sun, 

Burnish’d in his best beams rise, 
Put all his red-eyed rubies on; 

These rubies shall put out their eyes. 


Let him make poor the purple East, 


Search what the world’s close cabinets keep, 


Rob the rich births of each bright nest 
That flaming in their fair beds sleep 


Let him embrave his own bright tresses 
With a new morning made of gems; 

And wear, in those his wealthy dresses, 
Another day of diadems. 


When he hath done all he may, 
To make himself rich in his rise, 
All will be darkness to the day 


That breaks from one of these bright eyes. 


And soon this sweet truth shall appear, 
Dear Babe, ere many days be done: 

The Morn shall come to meet Thee here, 
And jJeave her own neglected sun. 


‘Here are beauties shall bereave him 


Of all his eastern paramours: 


His Persian lovers all shall leave him, 


And swear faith to Thy sweeter powers. 


[ Nor while they leave him shall they lose the sun, 
But in thy fairest eyes find two for one.] 


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DIES IRA, DIES ILLA 


DIES IRA, DIES ILLA 


THE HYMN OF THE CHURCH, IN MEDITATION OF 
THE DAY OF JUDGMENT 


I 


HeEar’st thou, my soul, what serious things 
Both the Psalm and Sybil sings 

Of a sure Judge, from Whose sharp ray 
The World in flames shall fly away? 


II 


O that fire! before whose face 
Heaven and Earth shall find no place. 
O those eyes! whose angry light 
Must be the day of that dread night. 


Il 


O that trump! whose blast shall run 

An even round with the circling sun, 
And urge the murmuring graves to bring 
Pale mankind forth to meet his King. 


IV 


Horror of Nature, Hell, and Death! 
When a deep groan from beneath 

Shall cry, ‘“We come, we come,” and all 
The caves of Night answer one call. 


Vv 


O that Book! whose leaves so bright 
Will set the World in severe light. 
O that Judge! Whose hand, whose eye 
None can endure; yet none can fly. 


11g 


IO 


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RICHARD CRASHAW 


vA 


Ah then, poor soul, what wilt thou say? 
And to what patron choose to pray? 
When stars themselves shall stagger, and 
‘The most firm foot no more then stand. 


VII 


But Thou givest leave (dread Lord!) that we 
‘Take shelter from Thyself in Thee; 

And with the wings of Thine Own dove 

Fly to Thy scepter of soft love. 


VIII 


Dear, remember in that Day 

Who was the cause Thou cam’st this way. 
Thy sheep was stray’d; and Thou would’st be 
Even lost Thyself in seeking me. 


IX 


Shall all that labor, all that cost 

Of love, and even that loss, be lost? 
And this loved soul judged worth no less 
Than all that way and weariness? 


x 


Just mercy, then, Thy reck’ning be 
With my Price, and not with me; 
Twas paid at first with too much pain, 
To be paid twice; or once, in vain. 


XI 
Mercy (my Judge), mercy I cry 
With blushing cheek and bleeding eye: 
The conscious colors of my sin 
Are red without and pale within. 


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DIES IRA‘, DIES ILLA 


XII 


O let Thine own soft bowels pay 

Thyself, and so discharge that day. 
If Sin can sigh, Love can forgive: 
O say the word, my soul shall live! 


XIII 


Those mercies which Thy Mary found, 
Or who Thy cross confess’d and crown’d, 
Hope tells my heart, the same loves be 
Still alive, and still for me. 


XIV 


Though both my prayers and tears combine, 
Both worthless are; for they are mine. 

But Thou Thy bounteous Self still be; 

And show Thou art, by saving me. 


XV 


O when Thy last frown shall proclaim 
The flocks of goats to folds of flame, 
And all Thy lost sheep found shall be; 
Let, ‘‘Come, ye blessed,” then call me. 


XVI 


When the dread “Ite” shall divide 

Those limbs of death from Thy left side; 
Let those life-speaking lips command 
That I inherit Thy right hand. 


XVII 


O hear a suppliant heart, all crusht 

And crumbled into contrite dust. 

My Hope, my Fear, my Judge, my Friend! 
Take charge of me, and of my end. 


I2I 


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122 RICHARD CRASHAW 


SAINT MARY MAGDALENE, OR THE WEEPER 


Lo! where a wounded heart with bleeding eyes conspire, 
Is she a flaming fountain, or a weeping fire? 


THE WEEPER 


I 


HAIL, sister springs! 
Parents of silver-footed rills! 
Ever-bubbling things! 
Thawing crystal! snowy hills! 
Still spending, never spent! I mean 
Thy fair eyes, sweet Magdalene! 


II 


Heavens thy fair eyes be; 
Heavens of ever-falling stars. 
Tis seed-time still with thee; 
And stars thou sow’st, whose harvest dares 
Promise the Earth to countershine 
Whatever makes heaven’s forehead fine. 


III 


But we are deceivéd all: 
Stars indeed they are too true: 
For they but seem to fall, 

As Heaven’s other spangles do; 
It is not for our Earth and us, 
To shine in things so precious. 


IV 


Upwards thou dost weep, 
Heaven’s bosom drinks the gentle stream. 
Where th’ milky rivers creep, 
Thine floats above, and is the cream. 
Waters above th’ heavens, what they be 
We are taught best by thy tears and thee. 


Io 


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SAINT MARY MAGDALENE, OR THE WEEPER 123 


v 


Every morn from hence, 25 
A brisk cherub something sips, 
Whose sacred influence 
Adds sweetness to his sweetest lips; 
‘Then to his music; and his song 
Tastes of this breakfast all day long. 30 


VI 


Not in the Evening’s eyes, 
When they red with weeping are 
For the Sun that dies; 
Sits Sorrow with a face so fair. 
Nowhere but here did ever meet 35 
Sweetness so sad, sadness so sweet. 


VII 


When Sorrow would be seen 
In her brightest majesty: 
(For she is a Queen) : 
Then is she dress’d by none but thee. 40 
Then, and only then, she wears 
Her proudest pearls; I mean, thy tears. 


Vill 


The dew no more will weep 
The primrose’s pale cheek to deck: 
The dew no more will sleep 45 
Nuzel’d in the lily’s neck ; 
Much rather would it be thy tear, 
And leave them both to tremble here. 


IX 


There’s no need at all, 
That the balsam-sweating bough 50 
So coyly should let fall 
His med’cinable tears; for now 
Nature hath learnt to extract a dew 
More sovereign and sweet from you. 


124 


RICHARD CRASHAW 


x 


Yet let the poor drops weep, 
(Weeping is the ease of Woe) : 
Softly let them creep, 

Sad that they are vanquish’d so. 
They, though to others no relief, 
Balsam may be for their own grief. 


XI 


Such the maiden gem 
By the purpling-vine put on, 
Peeps from her parent stem, 
And blushes at the bridegroom sun. 
This wat’ry blossom of thy eyne, 
Ripe, will make the richer wine. 


XII 


When some new bright guest 
Takes up among the stars a room, 
And Heaven will make a feast: 
Angels with crystal phials come 

And draw from these full eyes of thine, 
Their Master’s water, their own wine. 


XIII 


Golden though he be, 
Golden Tagus murmurs though. 
Were his way by thee, 
Content and quiet he would go; 
So much more rich would he esteem 
Thy silver, than his golden stream. 


XIV 


Well does the May that lies 
Smiling in thy cheeks, confess 
The April in thine eyes; 
Mutual sweetness they express. 
No April e’er lent kinder showers, 
Nor May returned more faithfui flowers, 


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SAINT MARY MAGDALENE, OR THE WEEPER 


XV 


O cheeks! Beds of chaste loves, 
By your own showers seasonably dashed. 
Eyes! Nests of milky doves, 
In your own wells decently washed. 
O wit of Love! that thus could place 
Fountain and garden in one face. 


XVI 


O sweet contest! of woes 
With loves; of tears with smiles. disputing! 
O fair and friendly foes, 
Each other kissing and confuting! 
While rain and sunshine, cheeks and eyes, 
Close in kind contrarieties. 


XVII 


But can these fair Floods be 
Friends with the bosom-fires that fill thee? 
Can so great flames agree 
Eternal tears should thus distil thee? 
O floods! O fires! O suns! O showers! 
Mixed and made friends by Love’s sweet powers. 


XVIII 


”*T was his well-pointed dart 
‘That digged these wells, and dressed this wine; 
And taught the wounded heart 
The way into these weeping eyne. 
Vain loves avaunt! bold hands forbear! 


The Lamb hath dipped His white foot here. 


XIX 


And now where’er He strays, 
Among the Galilean mountains, 
Or more unwelcome ways; 
He’s followed by two faithful fountains; 
Two walking baths, two weeping motions, 
Portable, and compendious oceans. 


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RICHARD CRASHAW 


XX 


O thou, thy Lord’s fair store! 
In thy so rich and rare expenses, 
Even when He showed most poor 
He might provoke the wealth of princes. 
What Prince’s wanton’st pride e’er could 
Wash with silver, wipe with gold? 


XXI 


Who is that King, but He 
Who call’st His crown, to be called thine, 
That thus can boast to be 
Waited on by a wandering mine, 
A voluntary mint, that strews 
Warm, silver showers where’er He goes? 


XXII 


O precious Prodigal! 
Fair spend-thrift of thyself! thy measure 
(Merciless love!) is all. 
Even to the last pearl in thy treasure: 
All places, times, and objects be 
‘Thy tears’ sweet opportunity. 


XXIII 


Does the day-star rise? 
Still thy tears do fall and fall. 
Does Day close his eyes? 
Still the fountain weeps for all. 
Let Night or Day do what they will, 
Thou hast thy task; thou weepest still. 


XXIV 


Does thy song lull the air? 
Thy falling tears keep faithful time. 
Does thy sweet-breathed prayer 
Up in clouds of incense climb? 
Still at each sigh, that is, each stop, 
A bead, that is, a tear, does drop. 


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SAINT MARY MAGDALENE, OR THE WEEPER 


XXV 


At these thy weeping gates 
(Watching their watery motion), 
Each wingéd moment waits: 
Takes his tear, and gets him gone. 

By thine eyes’ tinct ennobled thus, 
Time lays him up; he’s precious. 


XXVI 


Not, “‘so long she lived,” 
Shall thy tomb report of thee; 
But, “‘so long she grieved”’: 
Thus must we date thy memory. 
Others by moments, months, and years 
Measure their ages; thou, by tears. 


XXVII 


So do perfumes expire, 
So sigh tormented sweets, opprest 
With proud unpitying frre, 
Such tears the suffering rose, that’s vext 
With ungentle flames, does shed, 
Sweating in a too warm bed. 


XXVIII 


Say, ye bright brothers, 
The fugitive sons of those fair eyes, 
Your fruitful mothers! 
What make you here? what hopes can ’tice 
You to be born? what cause can borrow 
You from those nests of noble sorrow? 


XXIX 


Whither away so fast? 
For sure the sordid earth 
Your sweetness cannot taste, 
Nor does the dust deserve your birth. 
Sweet, whither haste you then? O say 
Why you trip so fast away? 


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128 RICHARD CRASHAW 


XXX 


We go not to seek 175 
The darlings of Aurora’s bed, 
The rose’s modest cheek, 
Nor the violet’s humble head. 
Though the field’s eyes too Weepers be, 
Because they want such tears as we. 180 


XXXI 


Much less mean we to trace 
The fortune of inferior gems, 
Preferr’d to some proud face, 
Or perched upon fear’d diadems: 
Crown’d heads are toys. We go to meet 185 
A worthy object, our Lord’s feet. 


A HYMN TO THE NAME AND HONOR OF THE 
ADMIRABLE SAINT TERESA 


Foundress of the Reformation of the Discalced Carmelites, both men 
and women; a woman for angelical height of speculation, for 
masculine courage of performance, more than a woman, who 
yet a child outran maturity, and durst plot a martyrdom. 


Love, thou art absolute sole lord 
Of life and death. To prove the word 
We'll now appeal to none of all 
Those thy old soldiers, great and tall, 
Ripe men of martyrdom, that could reach down 5 
With strong arms their triumphant crown; 
Such as could with lusty breath, 
Speak loud into the face of Death 
Their great Lord’s glorious name, to none 
Of those whose spacious bosoms spread a throne 10 
For Love at large to fill; spare blood and sweat: 
And see him take a private seat, 


A HYMN TO SAINT TERESA 


Making his mansion in the mild 
And milky soul of a soft child. 

Scarce has she learnt to lisp the name 
Of martyr; yet she thinks it shame 
Life should so long play with that breath 
Which spent can buy so brave a death. 

She never undertook to know 

What Death with Love should have to do; 
Nor has she e’er yet understood 

Why to show love, she should shed blood, 
Yet though she cannot tell you why, 

She can love, and she can die. 

Scarce has she blood enough to make 
A guilty sword blush for her sake; 

Yet has she a heart dares hope to prove 
How much less strong is Death than Love. 
Be Love but there; let poor six years 

Be posed with maturest fears 

Man trembles at, you straight shall find 
Love knows no nonage, nor the mind; 
”Tis love, not years or limbs that can 
Make the martyr, or the man. 

Love touched her heart, and lo it beats 
High, and burns with such brave heats; 
Such thirsts to die, as dares drink up 
A thousand cold deaths in one cup. 

Good reason; for she breathes all fire; 
Her white breast heaves with strong desire 
Of what she may, with fruitless wishes, 
Seek for amongst her mother’s kisses. 

Since ’tis not to be had at home 
She'll travel to a martyrdom. 

No home for her’s confesses she 
But where she may a martyr be. 

She’ll to the Moors; and trade with them 
For this unvalued diadem: 

She’ll offer them her dearest breath, 


With Christ’s name in’t, in change for death: 


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RICHARD CRASHAW 


She'll bargain with them, and will give 
Them God; teach them how to live 

In Him: or, if they this deny, 

For Him she’ll teach them how to die. 

So shall she leave amongst them sown 

Her Lord’s blood; or at least her own. 

Farewell then, all the World adieu! 
‘Teresa is no more for you. 

Farewell, all pleasures, sports, and joys 
(Never till now esteeméd toys) 

[ Farewell, whatever dear may be, | 
Mother’s arms, or father’s knee: 
Farewell house, and farewell home! 
She’s for the Moors, and martyrdom. 

Sweet, not so fast! lo, thy fair Spouse, 
Whom thou seek’st with so swift vows; 
Calls thee back, and bids thee come 
‘T’embrace a milder martyrdom. 

Blest powers forbid, thy tender life 
Should bleed upon a barbarous knife: 
Or some base hand have power to rase 
Thy breast’s chaste cabinet, and uncase 
A soul kept there so sweet: O no, 
Wise Heaven will never have it so. 
‘Thou art Love’s victim; and must die 
A death more mystical and high: 

Into Love’s arms thou shalt let fall 
A still-surviving funeral. 
His is the dart must make the death 


Whose stroke shall taste thy hallowed breath: 


A dart thrice dipp’d in that rich flame 
Which writes thy Spouse’s radiant name 
Upon the roof of Heaven, where aye 

It shines; and with a sovereign ray 

Beats bright upon the burning faces 

Of souls which in that Name’s sweet graces 
Find everlasting smiles: so rare, 

So spiritual, pure, and fair 

Must be th’ immortal instrument 


BP 


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85 


A HYMN TO SAINT TERESA 


Upon whose choice point shall be sent 
A life so loved: and that there be 
Fit executioners for thee, 
The fairest and first-born sons of fire, 
Blest seraphim, shall leave their quire, 
And turn Love’s soldiers, upon thee 
To exercise their archery. 

O how oft shalt thou complain 
Of a sweet and subtle pain: 
Of intolerable joys; 
Of a death, in which who dies 
Loves his death, and dies again, 
And would for ever so be slain. 
And lives, and dies; and knows not why 


To live, but that he thus may never leave to die. 


How kindly will thy gentle heart 
Kiss the sweetly-killing dart, 
And close in his embraces keep 
Those delicious wounds, that weep 
Balsam to heal themselves with; thus 
When these thy deaths, so numerous, 
Shall all at last die into one, 
And melt thy soul’s sweet mansion; 
Like a soft lump of incense, hasted 
By too hot a fire, and wasted 
Into perfuming clouds, so fast 
Shalt thou exhale to Heaven at last 
In a resolving sigh, and then 
O what? Ask not the tongues of men; 
Angels cannot tell; suffice 
Thyself shalt feel thine own full joys, 
And hold them fast for ever there, 
So soon as thou shalt first appear, 
The moon of maiden stars, thy white 
Mistress, attended by such bright 
Souls as thy shining self, shall come, 
And in her first ranks make thee room ; 
Where ’mongst her snowy family 
Immortal welcomes wait for thee. 


TQt 
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132 RICHARD CRASHAW 


O what delight, when revealed Life shall stand, 
And teach thy lips Heaven with His hand; [30 
On which thou now may’st to thy wishes 
Heap up thy consecrated kisses. 
What joys shall seize thy soul, when she, 
Bending her blessed eyes on Thee, 
(Those second smiles of Heaven,) shall dart 135 
Her mild rays through Thy melting heart. 
Angels, thy old friends, there shall greet thee, 
Glad at their own home now to meet thee. 
All thy good works which went before 
And waited for thee, at the door, 140 
Shall own thee there; and all in one 
Weave a constellation 
Of crowns, with which the King thy Spouse 
Shall build up thy triumphant brows. 
All thy old woes shall now smile on thee, 145 
And thy pains sit bright upon thee, 
[ All thy sorrows here shall shine, ] 
All thy sufferings be divine: 
‘Tears shall take comfort, and turn gems, 
And wrongs repent to diadems. 150 
Even thy deaths shall live; and new- 
Dress the soul, that erst they slew. 
Thy wounds shall blush to such bright scars 
As keep account of the Lamb’s wars. 
Those rare works where thou shalt leave writ 155 
Love’s noble history, with wit 
Taught thee by none but Him, while here 
‘They feed our souls, shall clothe thine there. 
Each heavenly word, by whose hid flame 
Our hard hearts shall strike fire, the same 160 
Shall flourish on thy brows, and be 
Both fire to us and flame to thee; 
Whose light shall live bright in thy face 
By glory, in our hearts by grace. 
Thou shalt look round about, and see 165 
Thousands of crown’d souls throng to be 


THE FLAMING HEART 133 


Themselves thy crown: sons of thy vows, 

The virgin-births with which thy sovereign Spouse 

Made fruitful thy fair soul. Go now 

And with them all about thee, bow 170 
To Him; put on (He'll say,) put on 

(My rosy love) that thy rich zone 

Sparkling with the sacred flames 

Of thousand souls, whose happy names 

Heaven keep upon thy score: (Thy bright 175 
Life brought them first to kiss the light, 

That kindled them to stars,) and so 

Thou with the Lamb, thy Lord, shalt go, 

And whereso’er He sets His white 

Steps, walk with Him those ways of light, 180 
Which who in death would live to see, 

Must learn in life to die like thee. 


THE FLAMING HEART 


UPON THE BOOK AND PICTURE OF THE SERAPHICAL SAINT TERESA, 
AS SHE IS USUALLY EXPRESSED WITH A SERAPHIM BESIDE HER 


WELL-MEANING readers! you that come as friends, 
And catch the precious name this piece pretends; 
Make not too much haste to admire 
That fair-cheek’d fallacy of fire. 
That is a seraphim, they say, 5 
And this the great Teresia. 
Readers, be ruled by me; and make 
Here a well-placed and wise mistake; 
You must transpose the picture quite, 
And spell it wrong to read it right; 10 
Read him for her, and her for him, 
And call the saint the seraphim. 
Painter, what didst thou understand 
To put her dart into his hand? 
See, even the years and size of him 15 
Shows this the mother-seraphim, 


134 


RICHARD CRASHAW 


This 1s the mistress-flame; and duteous he 
Her happy fire-works, here, comes down to see. 
O most poor-spirited of men! 
Had thy cold pencil kiss’d her pen, 
Thou couldst not so unkindly err 
To show us this faint shade for her. 
Why, man, this speaks pure mortal frame; 
And mocks with female frost Love’s manly flame. 
One would suspect thou meant’st to paint 
Some weak, inferior, woman-saint. 
But had thy pale-faced purple took 
Fire from the burning cheeks of that bright book, 
Thou wouldst on her have heap’d up all 
That could be form’d seraphical ; 
Whate’er this youth of fire wears fair, 
Rosy fingers, radiant hair, 
Glowing cheeks, and glist’ring wings, 
All those fair and fragrant things, 
But before all, that fiery dart 
Had fill’d the hand of this great heart. 
Do then, as equal right requires; 
Since his the blushes be, and her’s the fires, 
Resume and rectify thy rude design; 
Undress thy seraphim into mine; 
Redeem this injury of thy art, 
Give him the veil, give her the dart. 
Give him the veil, that he may cover 
The red cheeks of a rivall’d lover; 
Ashamed that our world now can show 
Nests of new seraphims here below. 
Give her the dart, for it is she 
(Fair youth) shoots both thy shaft and thee; 
Say, all ye wise and well-pierced hearts 
‘That live and die amidst her darts, 
What is’t your tasteful spirits do prove 
In that rare life of her, and Love? 
Say, and bear witness. Sends she not 
A seraphim at every shot? 
What magazines of immortal arms there shine! 


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THE FLAMING HEART 


Heaven’s great artillery in each love-spun line. 
Give then the dart to her who gives the flame; 
Give him the veil, who gives the shame. 

But if it be the frequent fate 
Of worse faults to be fortunate; 

If all’s prescription; and proud wrong 
Harkens not to an humble song; 

For all the gallantry of him, 

Give me the suffering seraphim. 

His be the bravery of all those bright things, 
The glowing cheeks, the glistering wings; 
The rosy hand, the radiant dart; 

Leave her alone the flaming heart, 

Leave her that; and thou shalt leave her 
Not one loose shaft, but Love’s whole quiver; 
For in Love’s field was never found 
A nobler weapon than a wound. 

Love’s passives are his activ’st part: 

The wounded is the wounding heart. 

O heart! equal poise of Love’s both parts, 

Big alike with wound and darts. 

Live in these conquering leaves; live all the same; 


And walk through all tongues one triumphant flame. 


Live here great heart; and love, and die, and kill; 


And bleed, and wound; and yield and conquer still. 


Let this immortal life where’er it comes 
Walk in a crowd of loves and martyrdoms. 
Let mystic deaths wait on’t; and wise souls be 
The love-slain witnesses of this life of thee. 
O sweet incendiary! show here thy art, 

Upon this carcass of a hard cold heart; 

Let all thy scatter’d shafts of light that play 
Among the leaves of thy large books of day, 
Combined against this breast at once break in 
And take away from me myself and sin; 
This gracious robbery shall thy bounty be, 
And my best fortunes such fair spoils of me. 
O thou undaunted daughter of desires! 

By all thy dower of lights and fires; 


135 


60 


65 


70 


i> 


80 


85 


90 


136 RICHARD CRASHAW 


By all the eagle in thee, all the dove; 95 
By all thy lives and deaths of love; 

By thy large draughts of intellectual day, 

And by thy thirsts of love more large than they; 

By all thy brim-filled bowls of fierce desire, 

By thy last morning’s draught of liquid fire; 100 
By the full kingdom of that final kiss 

‘That seized thy parting soul, and seal’d thee His; 

By all the heav’ns thou hast in Him 

(Fair sister of the seraphim!) 

By all of Him we have in thee; 105 
Leave nothing of myself in me. 

Let me so read thy life, that I 

Unto all life of mine may die. 


From STEPS TO THE TEMPLE 
UPON EASTER DAY 


I 
Risz, Heir of fresh Eternity, 
From thy virgin tomb! 
Rise, mighty Man of Wonders, and Thy World with Thee, 
Thy tomb the universal East, 
Nature’s new womb, 5 
Thy tomb, fair Immortality’s perfumed nest. 


Il 
Of all the glories make Noon gay, 
This is the Morn; 
This Rock buds forth the fountain of the streams of Day: 
In Joy’s white annals lives this hour 10 
When Life was born; 
No cloud scowl on His radiant lids, no tempest lour. 


III 
Life, by this Light’s nativity, 
All creatures have; 
Death only by this Day’s just doom is forced to die, 15 
Nor is Death forced; for may he lie 
Throned in Thy grave, 
Death will on this condition be content to die. 


JOHN DRYDEN 137 


JOHN DRYDEN 


1631—1700 


John Dryden, dramatist, critic, and poet laureate, was born in 1631. 
Beginning his education at Westminster, he finally entered ‘Trinity 
College, Cambridge, being graduated Bachelor of Arts in 1654. 

His first important writing was Heroic Stanzas, composed upon 
the death of Oliver Cromwell. From this beginning he continued a 
career as a professional man of letters. “The years from 1660 to 
1663 brought forth some of his best occasional verse, including 
Astra Redux, Coronation, To Lord Clarendon, and To Dr. Charle- 
ton. 

The year 1662 began his dramatic composition with the production 
of The Wild Gallant. ‘Then followed in quick succession The Rival 
Ladies, prefaced by his essay on the principles of dramatic criticism, 
The Indian Emperor, The Maiden Queen, Sir Martin Mar-all, The 
Mock Astrologer, Tyrannic Love, and Almanzor and Almahide. 

He became poet laureate in 1670, but continued to write for the 
stage as well as to voice the spirit of his age in verse. During the 
next ten years appeared Marriage a la Mode, Amboyna, The State of 
Innocence, Aurengzebe, and All for Love, which last is generally 
thought of as his masterpiece. 

In 1681 he began the first of his series of satires with the first part 
of Absalom and Achitophel. ‘There soon followed The Medal and 
the second part of Absalom and Achitophel. ‘These poems together 
with The Hind and the Panther, which appeared in 1687, placed him 
for all time in the front rank of English satirists. 

He became a convert to Catholicism in 1686, having begun to study 
religion five years before in preparation for his Religio Laici, an ar- 
gument for the faith of the Church of England. The investigation 
thus launched culminated in his conversion to Catholicism and _ his 
composition of The Hind and the Panther. ‘There has been a great 
deal of controversy concerning his reason for a change of faith. 
Perhaps the best statement in his defense is that left by Sir Walter 
Scott, who, as everyone knows, was not in sympathy with the Catholic 
Church. He says, ‘““We find that Dryden’s conversion was not of that 
sordid kind which is the consequence of a strong temporal interest; 
for he had expressed intelligibly the imagined desiderata which the 
Church of Rome alone pretends to supply, long before that temporal 
interest had an existence.” 

During the last years of his life he turned to translation, bringing 
out in all some 25,000 lines representing the work of Ovid, Horace, 


138 JOHN DRYDEN 


Homer, Theocritus, Virgil, Lucretius, and Juvenal. Besides trans- 
lating from the classical languages, he made several adaptations from 
Chaucer and Boccaccio. He did not, however, give over entirely the 
writing of verse; hence in 1697 appeared his Alexander's Feast, per- 
haps among the finest lyrics in the language. 

He died in 1700 and was buried in Westminster Abbey. 

There can be no doubt that Dryden is one of the most distinguished 
writers England has produced. He brought the rhymed couplet as 
a vehicle for satire to a state of perfection. He attained supreme 
heights as a dramatic writer in All for Love. He left us some of the 
finest lyrics in the literature. He became one of the first great Eng- 
lish critics. And he clarified English prose style, making further de- 
velopment a mere matter of evolution. 


i 


From THE HIND AND THE PANTHER 


Mucu malice, mingled with a little wit, 

Perhaps may censure this mysterious writ; 

Because the muse has peopled Caledon 

With panthers, bears, and wolves, and beasts unknown, 

As if we were not stocked with monsters of our own. 5 

Let A“sop answer, who has set to view 

Such kinds as Greece and Phrygia never knew; 

And Mother Hubbard, in her homely dress, 

Has sharply blamed a British lioness ; 

‘That queen, whose feast the factious rabble keep, 10 

Exposed obscenely naked, and asleep. 

Led by those great examples, may not I 

The wonted organs of their words supply ? 

If men transact like brutes, ’tis equal then 

For brutes to claim the privilege of men. 15 
Others our Hind of folly will indite, 

To entertain a dangerous guest by night. 

Let those remember, that she cannot die, 

Till rolling time is lost in round eternity; 

Nor need she fear the Panther, though untamed, 20 

Because the Lion’s peace was now proclaimed ; 

‘The wary savage would not give offence, 

To forfeit the protection of her prince; 

But watched the time her vengeance to complete, 


THE HIND AND THE PANTHER 139 


When all her furry sons in frequent senate met; 25 
Meanwhile she quenched her fury at the flood, 
And with a lenten salad cooled her blood. 
‘Their commons, though but coarse, were nothing scant, 
Nor did their minds an equal banquet want. 
For now the Hind, whose noble nature strove 30 
‘To express her plain simplicity of love, 
Did all the honors of her house so well, 
No sharp debates disturbed the friendly meal. 
She turned the talk, avoiding that extreme, 
‘To common dangers past, a sadly-pleasing theme; 35 
Remembering every storm which tosses the state, 
When both were objects of the public hate. 
And dropt a tear betwixt for her own children’s fate. 
Nor failed she then a full review to make 
Of what the Panther suffered for her sake; 40 
Her lost esteem, her truth, her loyal care, 
Her faith unshaken to an exiled heir, 
Her strength to endure, her courage to defy, 
Her choice of honorable infamy. 
On these, prolixly thankful, she enlarged ; 45 
Then with acknowledgments herself she charged ; 
For friendship, of itself an holy tie, 
Is made more sacred by adversity. 
Now should they part, malicious tongues would say, 
They met like chance companions on the way, 50 
Whom mutual fear of robbers had possessed ; 
While danger lasted, kindness was professed ; 
But, that once o’er, the short-lived union ends, 
The road divides, and there divide the friends. 
The Panther nodded, when her speech was done, 55 
But said, her gratitude had gone too far 
For common offices of Christian care. 
If to the lawful heir she had been true, 
She paid but Cesar what was Cesar’s due. 
“T might,” she added, “with like praise describe 60 
Your suffering sons, and so return your bribe; 
But incense from my hands is poorly prized ; 
For gifts are scorned where givers are despised. 


140 JOHN DRYDEN 


I served a turn, and then was cast away; 

You, like the gaudy fly, your wings display, 65 

And sip the sweets, and bask in your great patron’s day.” 
This heard, the matron was not slow to find 

What sort of malady had seized her mind; 

Disdain, with gnawing envy, fell despite, 

And cankered malice, stood in open sight; 70 

Ambition, interest, pride without control, 

And jealousy, the jaundice of the soul; 

Revenge, the bloody minister of ill, 

With all the lean tormentors of the will. 

’’T'was easy now to guess from whence arose 75 

Her new-made union with her ancient foes; 

Her forced civilities, her faint embrace, 

Affected kindness, with an altered face; 

Yet durst she not too deeply probe the wound, 

As hoping still the nobler parts were sound ; 80 

But strove with anodynes to assuage’ the smart, 

And mildly thus her medicine did impart. 
“Complaints of lovers help to ease their pain; 

It shows a rest of kindness to complain; 

A friendship loath to quit its former hold, 85 

And conscious merit, may be justly bold; 

But much more just your jealousy would show, 

If others’ good were injury to you: 

Witness, ye heavens, how I rejoice to see 

Rewarded worth and rising loyalty! 90 

Your warrior offspring, that upheld the crown, 

The scarlet honor of your peaceful gown, 

Are the most pleasing objects I can find, 

Charms to my sight, and cordials to my mind: 

When virtue spooms before a prosperous gale, 95 

My heaving wishes help to fill the sail; 

And if my prayers for all the brave were heard, 

Cesar should still have such, and such should still reward. 
“The labored earth your pains have sowed and filled, 

*Tis just you reap the product of the field: 100 

Yours be the harvest; ’tis the beggar’s gain, 

To glean the fallings of the loaded wain. 


THE HIND AND THE PANTHER 


Such scattered ears as are not worth your care, 
Your charity, for alms, may safely spare, 

For alms are but the vehicles of prayer. 

My daily bread is literally implored ; 

I have no barns nor granaries to hoard. 

If Cesar to his own his hand extends, 

Say which of yours his charity offends; 


You know, he largely gives to more than are his friends. 


Are you defrauded, when he feeds the poor? 
Our mite decreases nothing of your store. 
I am but few, and by your fare you see 
My crying sins are not of luxury. 
Some juster motive sure your mind withdraws, 
And makes you break our friendship’s holy laws; 
For barefaced envy is too base a cause. 
Show more occasion for your discontent; 
Your love, the Wolf, would help you to invent: 
Some German quarrel, or, as times go now, 
Some French, where force is uppermost, will do. 
When at the fountain’s head, as merit ought 
To claim the place, you take a swilling draught, 
How easy ’tis an envious eye to throw, 
And tax the sheep for troubling streams below; 
Or call her, when no further cause you find, 
An enemy professed of all your kind! 
But, then, perhaps, the wicked world would think, 
The Wolf designed to eat as well as drink.” 
This last allusion galled the Panther more, 
Because, indeed, it rubbed upon the sore; 
Yet seemed she not to winch, though shrewdly pained, 
But thus her passive character maintained. 
“T never grudged, whate’er my foes report, 
Your flaunting fortune in the Lion’s court. 
You have your day, or you are much belied, 
But I am always on the suffering side; 
You know my doctrine, and I need not say, 
I will not, but I cannot disobey. 
On this firm principle I ever stood; 
He of my sons who fails to make it good, 


I4I 


105 


110 


115 


120 


125 


130 


135 


140 


142 JOHN DRYDEN 


By one rebellious act renounces to my blood.” 

“Ah,” said the Hind, “how many sons have you, 
Who call you mother, whom you never knew! 
But most of them, who that relation plead, 145 
Are such ungracious youths as wish you dead. 
They gape at rich revenues which you hold, 
And fain would nibble at your grandame gold; 
Enquire into your years, and laugh to find 
Your crazy temper shows you much declined. 150 
Were you not dim and doted, you might see 
A pack of cheats that claim a pedigree, 
No more of kin to you, than you to me. 
Do you not know, that, for a little coin, 
Heralds can foist a name into the line? 155 
They ask you blessing but for what you have, 
But, once possessed of what with care you save, 
The wanton boys would vent upon your grave. 

Your sons of latitude, that count your grace, 
Though most resembling you in form and face, 160 
Are far the worst of your pretended race; 
And, but I blush your honesty to blot, 
Pray God you prove them lawfully begot! 
For, in some Popish libels I have read, 
The Wolf has been too busy in your bed; 165 
At least their hinder parts, the belly-piece, 
The paunch, and all that Scorpio claims, are his. 
Their malice too a sore suspicion brings, 
For, though they dare not bark, they snarl at kings. 
Nor blame them for intruding in your line; 170 
Fat bishoprics are still of right divine. 
Think you, your new French proselytes are come, 
‘To starve abroad, because they starved at home? 
Your benefices twinkled from afar, 
They found the new Messiah by the star; 175 
Those Swisses fight on any side for pay, 
And ’tis the living that conforms, not they. 
Mark with what management their tribes divide; 
Some stick to you, and some to t’ other side, 
‘That many churches may for many mouths provide. 180 


THE HIND AND THE PANTHER 


More vacant pulpits would more converts make; 
All would have latitude enough to take: 
The rest unbeneficed your sects maintain; 
For ordinations, without cures, are vain, 
And chamber practice is a silent gain. 
Your sons of breadth at home are much like these; 
Their soft and yielding metals run with ease; 
They melt, and take the figure of the mould, 
But harden and preserve it best in gold.” 

“Your Delphic sword,” the Panther then replied, 
“Is double-edged, and cuts on either side. 
Some sons of mine, who bear upon their shield 
Three steeples argent in a sable field, 
Have sharply taxed your converts, who, unfed, 
Have followed you for miracles of bread; 
Such, who themselves of no religion are, 
Allured with gain, for any will declare. 
Bare lies, with bold assertions, they can face; 
But dint of argument is out of place. 
The grim logician puts them in a fright; 
Tis easier far to flourish than to fight. 
Thus, our eighth Henry’s marriage they defame; 
They say, the schism of beds began the game, 
Divorcing from the Church to wed the dame; 
Though largely proved, and by himself professed, 
That conscience, conscience would not let him rest,— 
I mean, not till possessed of her he loved, 
And old, uncharming Catherine was removed. 
For sundry years before he did complain, 
And told his ghostly confessor his pain. 
With the same impudence, without a ground, 
They say, that, look the reformation round, 
No treatise of humility is found. 
But if none were, the gospel does not want; 
Our Saviour preached it, and I hope you grant, 
The sermon on the mount was Protestant.” 

“No doubt,” replied the Hind, “as sure as all 
The writings of Saint Peter and Saint Paul; 
On that decision let it stand, or fall. 


143 


185 


190 


195 


200 


205 


210 


144 JOHN DRYDEN 


Now for my converts, who, you say, unfed, 220 
Have followed me for miracles of bread. 
Judge not by hearsay, but observe at least, 
If since their change their loaves have been increased. 
The Lion buys no converts; if he did, 
Beasts would be sold as fast as he could bid. 225 
Tax those of interest, who conform for gain, 
Or stay the market of another reign: 
Your broad-way sons would never be too nice 
To close with Calvin, if he paid their price; 
But, raised three steeples higher, would change their note, 230 
And quit the cassock for the canting-coat. 
Now, if you damn this censure, as too bold, 
Judge by yourselves, and think not others sold. 
Meantime, my sons accused, by fame’s report, 
Pay small attendance at the Lion’s court, vei? 
Nor rise with early crowds, nor flatter late; 
For silently they beg, who daily wait. 
Preferment is bestowed, that comes unsought; 
Attendance is a bribe, and then ’tis bought. 
How they should speed, their fortune is untried ; 240 
For not to ask, is not to be denied. 
For what they have, their God and king they bless, 
And hope they should not murmur, had they less. 
But if reduced subsistence to implore, 
In common prudence they would pass your door; 245 
Unpities Hudibras, your champion friend, 
Has shown how far your charities extend. 
This lasting verse shall on his tomb be read, 
‘He shamed you living, and upbraids you dead.’ 
With odious atheist names you load your foes; 250 
Your liberal clergy why did I expose? 
It never fails in charities like those. 
In climes where true religion is professed, 
That imputation were no laughing jest; 
But imprimatur, with a chaplain’s name, 255 
Is here sufficient license to defame. 
What wonder is’t that black detraction thrives? 


BRITANNIA REDIVIVA 


The homicide of names is less than lives; 
And yet the perjured murderer survives.” 

This said, she paused a little, and suppressed 
The boiling indignation of her breast. 
She knew the virtue of her blade, nor would 
Pollute her satire with ignoble blood; 
Her panting foe she saw before her eye, 
And back she drew the shining weapon dry. 
So when the generous Lion has in sight 
His equal match, he rouses for the fight ; 
But when his foe lies prostrate on the plain, 
He sheathes his paws, uncurls his angry mane. 
And, pleased with bloodless honors of the day, 
Walks over, and disdains the inglorious prey. 


BRITANNIA REDIVIVA 


A POEM ON THE BIRTH OF JAMES PRINCE OF WALES 


(THE PRETENDER) 


Oovr vows are heard betimes! and Heaven takes care 


To grant, before we can conclude the prayer: 

Preventing angels met it half the way, 

And sent us back to praise, who came to pray. 
Just on the day, when the high-mounted sun 

Did farthest in his northern progress run, 


He bended forward, and ev’n stretch’d the sphere 


Beyond the limits of the lengthened year, 
To view a brighter sun in Britain born; 
That was the business of his longest morn; 
The glorious object seen, twas time to turn. 
Departing Spring could only stay to shed 
Her bloomy beauties on the genial bed, 
But left the manly Summer in her stead, 
With timely fruit the longing land to cheer, 
And to fulfil the promise of the year. 
Betwixt two seasons comes the auspicious heir, 
This age to blossom, and the next to bear. 


145 


260 


265 


270 


IO 


15 


146 JOHN DRYDEN 


Last solemn sabbath saw the Church attend; 
‘The Paraclete in fiery pomp descend; 
But when his wondrous octave roll’d again, 
He brought a royal infant in his train. 
So great a blessing to so good a king, 
None but the Eternal Comforter could bring. 
Or did the mighty Trinity conspire, 
As once, in council to create our sire? 
It seems as if they sent the new-born guest 
To wait on the procession of their feast ; 
And on their sacred anniverse decreed 
‘To stamp their image on the promised seed. 
Three realms united, and on one bestow’d, 
An emblem of their mystic union show’d: 
The Mighty Trine the triple empire shared, 
As every person would have one to guard. 
Hail, son of prayers! by holy violence 
Drawn down from Heaven; but long be banish’d thence, 
And late to thy paternal skies retire: 
To mend our crimes whole ages would require; 
To change the inveterate habit of our sins, 
And finish what thy godlike sire begins. 
Kind Heaven, to make us Englishmen again, 
No less can give us than a patriarch’s reign. 
The sacred cradle to your charge receive, 
Ye seraphs, and by turns the guard relieve; 
‘Thy father’s angel, and thy father join, 
To keep possession, and secure the line; 
But long defer the honors of thy fate: 
Great, may they be like his, like his be late; 
‘That James this running century may view, 
And give his son an auspice to the new. 
Our wants exact at least that moderate stay: 
For see the Dragon winged on his way, 
To watch the travail, and devour the prey. 
Or, if allusions may not rise so high, 
Thus, when Alcides raised his infantry-cry, 
The snakes besieged his young divinity: 
But vainly with their forked tongues they threat; 


20 


25 


30 


35 


40 


45 


50 


55 


BRITANNIA REDIVIVA 


For opposition makes a hero great. 
To needful succour all the good will run, 
And Jove assert the godhead of his son. 

Oh still repining at your present state, 
Grudging yourselves the benefits of fate, 
Look up, and read in characters of light 
A blessing sent you in your own despite. 
The manna falls, yet that celestial bread 
Like Jews, you munch, and murmur while you feed. 
May not your fortune be like their’s, exiled, 
Yet forty years to wander in the wild: 

Or if it be may Moses live at least, 
To lead you to the verge of promised rest. 

Though poets are not prophets, to foreknow 


What plants will take the blight, and what will grow 


By tracing Heaven his footsteps may be found: 
Behold! how awfully he walks the round! 

God is abroad, and, wondrous in his ways, 

The rise of empires, and their fall surveys ; 

More (might I say) than with an usual eye, 

He sees his bleeding Church in ruin lie, 

And hears the souls of saints beneath his altar cry. 


Already has he lifted high the sign, 


Which crown’d the conquering arms of Constantine: 


The moon grows pale at that presaging sight, 

And half her train of stars have lost their light. 
Behold another Sylvester, to bless 

‘The sacred standard, and secure success; 

Large of his treasures, of a soul so great, 

As fills and crowds his universal seat. 

Now view at home a second Constantine ; 

(The former too was of the British line) 

Has not his healing balm your breaches closed 

Whose exile many sought, and few opposed? 

Or, did not Heaven by its eternal doom 

Permit those evils, that this good might come? 

So manifest, that e’en the moon-eyed sects 

See whom and what this Providence protects. 

Methinks, had we within our minds no more 


147 


60 


65 


70 


75 


80 


85 


go 


95 


148 JOHN DRYDEN 


Than that one shipwreck on the fatal shore, 
That only thought may make us think again, 
What wonders God reserves for such a reign. 
To dream that chance his preservation wrought, 
Were to think Noah was preserved for nought: 100 
Or the surviving eight were not design’d 
To people earth, and to restore their kind. 
When humbly on the royal babe we gaze, 
The manly lines of a majestic face 
Give awful joy: ’tis paradise to look 105 
On the fair frontispiece of Nature’s book: 
Ifthe first opening page so charms the sight, 
Think how the unfolded volume will delight! 
See how the venerated infant lies 
In early pomp; how through the mother’s eyes 110 
The father’s soul, with an undaunted view, 
Looks out, and takes our homage as his due. 
See on his future subjects how he smiles, 
Nor meanly flatters, nor with craft beguiles ; 
But with an open face, as on his throne, I15 
Assures our birthrights, and assumes his own. 
Born in broad day-light, that the ungrateful rout 
May find no room for a remaining doubt; 
Truth, which itself is light, does darkness shun, 
And the true eaglet safely dares the sun. 120 
Fain would the fiends have made a dubious birth 
Loth to confess the godhead clothed in earth: 
But sicken’d, after all their baffled lies, 
To find an heir-apparent of the skies: 
Abandon’d to despair, still may they grudge, 125 
And, owning not the Saviour, prove the judge. 
Not great A‘neas stood in plainer day, 
When, the dark mantling mist dissolved away, 
He to the Tyrians show’d his sudden face, 
Shining with all his goddess-mother’s grace: 130 
For she herself had made his countenance bright, 
Breathed honor on his eyes, and her own purple light. 
If our victorious Edward, as they say, 
Gave Wales a prince on that propitious day, 


BRITANNIA REDIVIVA 


Why may not years revolving with his fate 

Produce his like, but with a longer date? 

One, who may carry to a distant shore 

‘The terror that his famed forefather bore. 

But why should James or his young hero stay 

For slight presages of a name or day? 

We need no Edward’s fortune to adorn 

That happy moment when our prince was born: 

Our prince adorns his day, and ages hence 

Shall wish his birth-day for some future prince. 
Great Michael, prince of all the ethereal hosts, 

And whate’er inborn saints our Britain boasts; 

And thou, the adopted patron of our isle, 

With cheerful aspects on this infant smile: 


The pledge of Heaven, which, dropping from above, 


Secures our bliss, and reconciles his love. 
Enough of ills our dire rebellion wrought, 

When, to the dregs, we drank the bitter draught; 

Then airy atoms did in plagues conspire, 

Nor did the avenging angel yet retire, 

But purged our still increasing crimes with fire. 

‘Then perjured Plots, the still impending Test, 

And worse—but charity conceals the rest: 

Here stop the current of the sanguine flood ; 

Require not, gracious God, thy martyrs’ blood; 

But let their dying pangs, their living toil, 

Spread a rich harvest through their native soil: 

A harvest ripening for another reign, 

Of which this royal babe may reap the grain. 
Enough of early saints one womb has given; 

Enough increased the family of heaven: 

Let them for his and our atonement go; 

And reigning blest above, leave him to rule below. 
Enough already has the year foreslow’d 

His wonted course, the sea has overflow’d, 

‘The meads were floated with a weeping spring, 

And frighten’d birds in woods forgot to sing: 

‘The strong-limb’d steed beneath his harness faints, 

And the same shivering sweat his lord attaints, 


149 
135 


140 


145 


150 


155 


160 


165 


170 


150 JOHN DRYDEN 


When will the minister of wrath give o’er? 
Behold him, at Araunah’s threshing-floor: 175 
He stops, and seems to sheathe his flaming brand, 
Pleased with burnt incense from our David’s hand. 
David has bought the Jebusite’s abode, 
And raised an altar to the living God. 
Heaven, to reward him, makes his joys sincere; 180 
No future ills nor accidents appear, 
To sully and pollute the sacred infant’s year. 
Five months to discord and debate were given: 
He sanctifies the yet remaining seven. 
Sabbath of months! henceforth in him be blest, 185 
And prelude to the realms perpetual rest! 
Let his baptismal drops for us atone; 
Lustrations for offences not his own. 
Let Conscience, which is Interest ill disguised, 
In the same font be cleansed, and all the land baptized. 190 
Unnamed as yet; at least unknown to fame: 
Is there a strife in heaven about his name? 
Where every famous predecessor vies, 
And makes a faction for it in the skies? 
Or must it be reserved to thought alone? 195 
Such was the sacred Ietragrammaton. 
‘Things worthy silence must not be reveal’d: 
Thus the true name of Rome was kept conceal’d, 
‘To shun the spells and sorceries of those 
Who durst her infant Majesty oppose. 200 
But when his tender strength in time shall rise 
To dare ill tongues, and fascinating eyes; 
This isle, which hides the little thunderer’s fame, 
Shall be too narrow to contain his name: 
The artillery of heaven shall make him known; 205 
Crete could not hold the god, when Jove was grown. 
As Jove’s increase, who from his brain was born, 
Whom arms and arts did equally adorn, 
Free of the breast was bred, whose milky taste 
Minerva’s name to Venus had debased ; 210 
So this imperial babe rejects the food 
‘That mixes monarch’s with plebeian blood: 


BRITANNIA REDIVIVA 


Food that his inborn courage might control, 
Extinguish all the father in his soul, 

And, for his Estian race, and Saxon strain, 
Might reproduce some second Richard’s reign. 
Mildness he shares from both his parents’ blood: 
But kings too tame are despicably good: 

Be this the mixture of this regal child, 

By nature manly, but by virtue mild. 

Thus far the furious transport of the news 
Had to prophetic madness fired the Muse; 
Madness ungovernable, uninspired, 

Swift to foretell whatever she desired. 

Was it for me the dark abyss to tread, 

And read the book which angels cannot read ? 
How was I punish’d, when the sudden blast, 

The face of heaven, and our young sun o’ercast! 
Fame, the swift ill, increasing as she roll’d, 
Disease, despair, and death, at three reprises told; 
At three insulting strides she stalk’d the town, 
And, like contagion, struck the loyal down. 
Down fell the winnow’d wheat; but mounted high, 
The whirlwind bore the chaff, and hid the sky. 
Here black rebellion shooting from below, 

(As earth’s gigantic brood by moments grow) 
And here the sons of God are petrified with woe: 
An apoplex of grief: so low were driven 

The saints, as hardly to defend their heaven. 

As, when pent vapors run their hollow round, 
Earthquakes, which are convulsions of the ground, 
Break bellowing forth, and no confinement brook, 
Till the third settles what the former shook; 
Such heavings had our souls; till, slow and late, 


Our life with his return’d, and faith prevail’d on fate. 


By prayers the mighty blessing was implored, 

To prayers was granted, and by prayers restored. 
So ere the Shunamite a son conceived, 

The prophet promised, and the wife believed. 

A son was sent, the son so much desired ; 

But soon upon the mother’s knees expired. 


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152 JOHN DRYDEN 


The troubled seer approach’d the mournful door, 

Ran, pray’d, and sent his pastoral staff before, 

Then stretch’d his limbs upon the child, and mourn’d, 

Till warmth, and breath, and a new soul return’d. 255 
Thus Mercy stretches out her hand, and saves 

Desponding Peter sinking in the waves. 
As when a sudden storm of hail and rain 

Beats to the ground the yet unbearded grain, 

Think not the hopes of harvest are destroy’d 260 

On the flat field, and on the naked void; 

The light, unloaded stem, from tempest freed, 

Will raise the youthful honors of his head ; 

And, soon restored by native vigor, bear 

‘The timely product of the bounteous year. 265 
Nor yet conclude all fiery trials past: 

For Heaven will exercise us to the last; 

Sometimes will check us in our full career, 

With doubtful blessings, and with mingled fear; 

That, still depending on his daily grace, 270 

His every mercy for an alms may pass; 

With sparing hands will diet us to good, 

Preventing surfeits of our pamper’d blood. 

So feeds the mother-bird her craving young 

With little morsels, and delays them long. 275 
True, this last blessing was a royal feast; 

But, where’s the wedding-garment on the guest? 

Our manners, as religion were a dream, 

Are such as teach the nations to blaspheme. 

In lusts we wallow, and with pride we swell, 280 

And injuries with injuries repel; 

Prompt to revenge, not daring to forgive, 

Our lives unteach the doctrine we believe. 

Thus Israel sinn’d, impenitently hard, 

And vainly thought the present ark their guard; 285 

But when the haughty Philistines appear, 

They fled, abandon’d to their foes and fear; 

Their God was absent, though his ark was there. 

Ah! lest our crimes should snatch this pledge away, 

And make our joys the blessings of a day! 290 


BRITANNIA REDIVIVA 


For we have sinn’d him hence, and that he lives, 
God to his promise, not our practice gives. 

Our crimes would soon weigh down the guilty scale, 
But James, and Mary, and the Church prevail. 
Nor Amalek can rout the chosen bands, 

While Hur and Aaron hold up Moses’ hands. 

By living well, let us secure his days, 
Moderate in hopes, and humble in our ways. 
No force the free-born spirit can constrain, 

But charity, and great examples gain. 
Forgiveness is our thanks for such a day, 
Tis god-like, God in his own coin to pay. 

But you, propitious queen, translated here, 
From your mild heaven, to rule our rugged sphere, 
Beyond the sunny walks, and circling year: 

You, who your native climate have bereft 

Of all the virtues, and the vices left; 

Whom piety and beauty make their boast, 
Though beautiful is well in pious lost; 

So lost, as star-light is dissolved away, 

And melts into the brightness of the day; 
Or gold about the regal diadem, 

Lost to improve the luster of the gem. 

What can we add to your triumphant day? 
Let the great gift the beauteous giver pay. 
For should our thanks awake the rising sun, 
And lengthen, as his latest shadows run, 
That, tho’ the longest day, would soon, too soon be done. 
Let angels’ voices with their harps conspire, 
But keep the auspicious infant from the choir; 
Late let him sing above, and let us know 

No sweeter music than his cries below. 

Nor can I wish to you, great monarch, more 
Than such an annual income to your store; 

The day which gave this Unit, did not shine 
For less omen, than to fill the Trine. 

After a Prince, an Admiral beget ; 

The Royal Sovereign wants an anchor yet. 
Our isle has younger titles still in store, 


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iS4 JOHN DRYDEN 


And when the exhausted.land can yield no more, 330 
Your line can force them from a foreign shore. 
The name of Great your martial mind will suit; 
But justice is your darling attribute: 
Of all the Greeks, ’twas but one hero’s due, 
And, in him, Plutarch prophesied of you. 335 
A prince’s favor but on few can fall, 
But justice is a virtue shared by all. 
Some kings the name of conquerors have assumed, 
Some to be great, some to be gods presumed ; 
But boundless power, and arbitrary lust, 340 
Made tyrants still abhor the name of just; 
They shunn’d the praise this god-like virtue gives, 
And fear’d a title that reproach’d their lives. 
The power, from which all kings derive their state, 
Whom they pretend, at least, to imitate, 345 
Is equal both to punish and reward; 
For few would love their God, unless they fear’d. 
Resistless force and immortality 
Make but a lame, imperfect, deity; 
‘Tempests have force unbounded to destroy, 350 
And deathless being even the damn’d enjoy; 
And yet Heaven’s attributes, both last and first, 
One without life, and one with life accurst: 
But justice is Heaven’s self, so strictly he, 
That, could it fail, the Godhead could not be. 355 
This virtue is your own; but life and state 
Are one to fortune subject, one to fate: 
Equal to all, you justly frown or smile; 
Nor hopes nor fears your steady hand beguile; 
Yourself our balance hold, the world’s our isle. 360 


A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA’S DAY, 1687 


From harmony, from heavenly harmony, 
This universal frame began: 
When nature underneath a heap 
Of jarring atoms lay, 
And could not heave her head, 5 


A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA’S DAY 


The tuneful voice was heard from high, 
Arise, ye more than dead. 
Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry, 
In order to their stations leap, 
And Music’s power obey. 
From harmony, from heavenly harmony 
This universal frame began: 
From harmony to harmony, 
Through all the compass of the notes it ran, 
The diapason closing full in Man. 


What passion cannot Music raise and quell ? 
When Jubal struck the chorded shell, 
His listening brethren stood around, 
And, wondering, on their faces fell 
To worship that celestial sound. 
Less than a God they thought there could not dwell 
Within the hollow of that shell, 
That spoke so sweetly and so well. 
What passion cannot Music raise and quell? 


The trumpet’s loud clangor 
Excites us to arms, 
With shrill notes of anger, 
And mortal alarms. 
The double double double beat 
Of the thundering drum 
Cries, hark! the foes come; 
Charge, charge, ’tis too late to retreat. 


The soft complaining flute 
In dying notes discovers 
The woes of hopeless lovers 
Whose dirge is whisper’d by the warbling lute. 


Sharp violins proclaim 
Their jealous pangs, and desperation, 
Fury, frantic indignation, 
Depth of pains, and height of passion, 
For the fair, disdainful, dame. 


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156 ALEXANDER POPE 


But oh! what art can teach, 
What human voice can reach, 
The sacred organ’s praise? 
Notes inspiring holy love, 45 
Notes that wing their heavenly ways 
To mend the choirs above. 


Orpheus could lead the savage race; 
And trees uprooted left their place, 
Sequacious of the lyre: 50 
But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher; 
When to her organ vocal breath was given. 
An angel heard, and straight appear’d 
Mistaking earth for heaven. 


GRAND CHORUS 


As from the power of sacred lays 
The spheres began to move, 
And sung the great Creator’s praise 
To all the bless’d above; 
So when the last and dreadful hour 55 
This crumbling pageant shall devour, 
The trumpet shall be heard on high, 
‘The dead shall live, the living die, 
And Music shall untune the sky. 


ALEX AN DER” POPE 
1688—1744 


Alexander Pope, poet and satirist, the most distinguished man of 
letters of his age, was born in London in 1688. His parents were of 
the Catholic faith, a matter which at this time was conducive of great 
hardship. ‘The efforts of James II to restore England to the ancient 
belief had ended in disaster, the king himself being forced to flee to 
France, and the throne being tendered to William of Orange, one of 
the strictest of Protestant princes. Naturally, the result was a state 


ALEXANDER POPE 157 


of affairs adverse to Catholics. In fact, during the whole of Pope’s 
lifetime Catholics were oppressed. ‘They were not allowed to attend 
the schools and universities. “Their taxes were multiplied, and they 
were forbidden to hold real estate. No single public career was open 
to them. And as a climax, during the last year of Pope’s life, a 
proclamation was read which prohibited Catholics from approaching 
nearer than ten miles to the city of London. In spite of such condi- 
tions, and notwithstanding pressure after pressure that was brought 
to bear upon him, Alexander Pope continued all his life the practise 
of his faith. 

His early education was carried on by the family priest, who 
grounded him rather thoroughly in Latin and Greek. For a short 
time he attended a makeshift school in London, but at the age of 
twelve gave up formal study entirely. 

His first publication consisted of a modernized version of one of 
The Canterbury Tales, a short translation from Homer, and some 
original verses, Pastorals, all which appeared in Tonson’s Miscellany 
in 1709. 

From this time he directed all his efforts toward becoming a writer. 
In 1711 appeared his Essay on Criticism, which marked the begin- 
nings of his fame. Messiah was published in 1712, and the first 
draft of The Rape of the Lock appeared in the same year. 

These writings brought him the acquaintance of most of the prom- 
inent men of his day, and had it not been for the fact of his religion 
he might have held one of the sinecure offices that so frequently were 
bestowed upon men of letters at that time. Lacking this sort of 
opportunity he began a translation of Homer. As a result of the 
wide friendships he had made and of his reputation as a poet, he re- 
ceived from this undertaking the, in his age, unprecedented sum of 
$30,000. Not only was the work a financial success, but the world 
has ever since accepted it as the standard translation of the works of 
Homer. 

The Homer appeared between 1715 and 1720, and immediately 
afterward Pope undertook to edit the plays of Shakespeare. His 
edition made its appearance in 1724, and while it has been largely 
superseded, it holds a special interest for Shakespearean scholars by 
reason of its being the first attempt to restore the original text. 

In 1728 he published the Dunciad, a satire in which he declared 
war upon his enemies. Unfortunately, because of his religion, be- 
cause of his badly mis-shapen body, but chiefly perhaps because he 
had made for himself in spite of his handicaps a distinguished place 
in the world of letters, he had from the first been the target for all 
sorts of abuse. The Dunciad was his answer, and has become no 
slight contributing cause for the reputation for ill-nature that suc- 
ceeding generations have given him. 

Following the Dunciad came the Moral Essays in 1731, the Essay 


158 ALEXANDER POPE 


on Man in 1733, Satires and Epistles in 1738, and the collected Works 
in 1735. 

The last years of his life were spent at Twickenham, where he 
died in 1744. 

As a poet Pope represents the highest achievement in one of the 
great literary movements; he reflected exactly the ideals of his age in 
art, thought, and politics; and he achieved a conscious unity, an 
exactitude of phrase, and a degree of finish like nothing any previous 
writer had attempted. 


MESSIAH 


A SACRED ECLOGUE, IN IMITATION OF VIRGIL’S “POLLIO” 


YE NYMPHs of Solyma! begin the song: 
To heavenly themes sublimer strains belong. 
The mossy fountains and the sylvan shades, 
‘The dreams of Pindus and th’ Aonian maids, 
Delight no more—O Thou my voice inspire, 5 
Who touch’d Isaiah’s hallow’d lips with fire! | 
Rapt into future times, the bard begun: 
A Virgin shall conceive, a Virgin bear a Son! 
From Jesse’s root beheld a branch arise, 
Whose sacred flower with fragrance fills the skies: 10 
Th’ ethereal spirit o’er its leaves shall move, 
And on its top descends the mystic dove. 
Ye heavens! from high the dewy nectar pour, 
And in soft silence shed the kindly shower! 
The sick and weak the healing plant shall aid, 15 
From storm a shelter, and from heat a shade. 
All crimes shall cease, and ancient frauds shall fail: 
Returning justice lift aloft her scale; 
Peace o’er the world her olive wand extend, 
And white-robed Innocence from heaven descend. 20 
Swift fly the years, and rise th’ expected morn! 
Oh spring to light, auspicious Babe, be born! 
See, Nature hastes her earliest wreathes to bring, 
With all the incense of the breathing spring; 
See lofty Lebanon his head advance, 25 
See nodding forests on the mountains dance: ) 


MESSIAH 


See spicy clouds from lowly Sharon rise, 

And Carmel’s flowery top perfume the skies! 
Hark! a glad voice the lonely desert cheers; 
Prepare the way! A God, a God appears! 

A God, a God! the vocal hills reply ; 

The rocks proclaim th’ approaching Deity. 

Lo, earth receives him from the bending skies! 
Sink down, ye mountains; and ye valleys, rise! 
With heads declined, ye cedars, homage pay; 
Be smooth, ye rocks; ye rapid floods, give way. 
The Saviour comes! by ancient bards foretold: 
Hear him, ye deaf; and all ye blind, behold! 
He from thick films shall purge the visual ray, 
And on the sightless eye-ball pour the day: 
Tis he th’ obstructed paths of sound shall clear, 
And bid new music charm th’ unfolding ear; 


‘The dumb shall sing, the lame his crutch forego, 


And leap exulting, like the bounding roe. 


No sigh, no murmur, the wide world shall hear; 


From every face he wipes off every tear. 

In adamantine chains shall death be bound, 
And hell’s grim tyrant feel th’ eternal wound. 
As the good shepherd tends his fleecy care, 
Seeks freshest pasture, and the purest air; 
Explores the lost, the wandering sheep directs, 
By day o’ersees them, and by night protects; 
The tender lambs he raises in his arms, 
Feeds from his hand, and in his bosom warms: 
Thus shall mankind his guardian care engage, 
The promised father of the future age. 

No more shall nation against nation rise, 
Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful eyes, 
Nor fields with gleaming steel be cover’d o’er, 
The brazen trumpets kindle rage no more: 
But useless lances into scythes shall bend, 
And the broad falchion in a plough-share end. 
Then palaces shall rise; the joyful son 

Shall finish what his short-lived sire begun; 
Their vines a shadow to their race shall yield, 


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ALEXANDER POPE 


And the same hand that sow’d, shall reap the field. 
The swain in barren deserts with surprise 

Sees lilies spring, and sudden verdure rise; 

And starts, amidst the thirsty wilds to hear 

New falls of water murmuring in his ear. 

On rifted rocks, the dragon’s late abodes, 

The green reed trembles, and the bulrush nods. 
Waste, sandy valleys, once perplex’d with thorn, 
The spiry fir and shapely box adorn: 

To leafless shrubs the flowery palms succeed, 

And odorous myrtle to the noisome weed, 

The lambs with wolves shall graze the verdant mead, 
And boys in flowery bands the tiger lead. 

The steer and lion at one crib shall meet, 

And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim’s feet. 

The smiling infant in his hand shall take 

The crested basilisk and speckled snake, 

Pleased, the green luster of the scales survey, 

And with their forky tongue shall innocently play. 
Rise, crown’d with light, imperial Salem, rise! 
Exalt thy towery head, and lift thy eyes! 

See a long race thy spacious courts adorn; 

See future sons, and daughters yet unborn, 

In crowding ranks on every side arise, 

Demanding life, impatient for the skies! 

See barbarous nations at thy gates attend, 

Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend; 

See thy bright altars, throng’d with prostrate kings, 
And heap’d with products of Sabean springs! 

For thee Idume’s spicy forests blow, 

And seeds of gold in Ophir’s mountains glow. 

See heaven its sparkling portals wide display, 

And break upon thee in a flood of day! 

No more the rising sun shall gild the morn, 

Nor evening Cynthia fill her silver horn; 

But lost, dissolved in thy superior rays, 

One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze 

O’erflow thy courts: the Light himself shall shine 
Reveal’d, and God’s eternal day be thine! 


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ODEVON’ STicCECILIA'S, DAY 


The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay, 
Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away: 
But fix’d his word, his saving power remains; 


Thy realm for ever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns! 


ODE ON ST. CECILIA’S DAY 


DESCEND, ye Nine! descend, and sing; 
The breathing instruments inspire ; 
Wake into voice each silent string, 
And sweep the sounding lyre! 


In a sadly-pleasing strain 

Let the warbling lute complain: 
Let the loud trumpet sound, 
Till the roofs all around 
The shrill echoes rebound: 


While, in more lengthen’d notes and slow, 
The deep, majestic, solemn organs blow. 


Hark! the numbers soft and clear 
Gently steal upon the ear; 

Now louder, and yet louder rise, 

And fill with spreading sounds the skies; 


Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes, 
In broken air trembling, the wild music floats: 


‘Till, by degrees, remote and small, 
The strains decay, 
And melt away, 

In a dying, dying fall. 


By music, minds an equal temper know, 


Nor swell too high, nor sink too low. 


If in the breast tumultuous joys arise, 
Music her soft, assuasive voice applies; 


Or, when the soul is press’d with cares, 
Exalts her in enlivening airs. 


Warriors she fires with animated sounds: 
Pours balm into the bleeding lover’s wounds; 


Melancholy lifts her head, 
Morpheus rouses from his bed, 


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Sloth unfolds her arms and wakes, 
Listening Envy drops her snakes; 
Intestine wars no more our passions wage, 

And giddy factions bear away their rage. 


But when our country’s cause provoke to arms, 
How martial music every bosom warms! 
So when the first bold vessel dared the seas, 
High on the stern the Thracian raised his strain, 
While Argo saw her kindred trees 
Descend from Pelion to the main. 
‘Transported demi-gods stood round, 
And men grew heroes at the sound, 
Inflamed with glory’s charms: 
Each chief his sevenfold shield display’d, 
And half unsheathed the shining blade; 
And seas, and rocks, and skies rebound 
To arms, to arms, to arms! 


But when through all th’ infernal bounds, 
Which flaming Phlegethon surrounds, 
Love, strong as death, the poet led 
To the pale nations of the dead, 
What sounds were heard, 
What scenes appear’d, 
O’er all the coasts! 
Dreadful gleams, 
Dismal screams, 
Fires that glow, 
Shrieks of woe, 
Sullen moans, 
Hollow groans, 
And cries of tortured ghosts! 
But, hark! he strikes the golden lyre; 
And see! the tortur’d ghosts respire, 
See, shady forms advance! 
Thy stone, O Sisyphus, stands still, 
Ixion rests upon his wheel, 
And the pale specters dance! 


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ODE ON ST. CECILIA’S DAY 


The furies sink upon their iron beds, 


And snakes uncurl’d hang listening round their heads. 


By the streams that ever flow, 

By the fragrant winds that blow 
O’er th’ Elysian flowers ; 

By those happy souls, who dwell 

In yellow meads of asphodel, 
Or amaranthine bowers; 

‘By the hero’s armed shades, 
Glitt’ring through the gloomy glades; 
By the youths that died for love, 
Wandering in the myrtle grove, 

Restore, restore Eurydice to life: 

Oh take the husband, or return the wife! 
He sung, and hell consented 

To hear the poet’s prayer; 
Stern Prosperine relented, 
And gave him back the fair. 
Thus song could prevail 
O’er death, and o’er hell; 

A conquest how hard and how glorious! 
Though fate had fast bound her 
With Styx nine times round her, 

Yet music and love were victorious. 


But soon, too soon the lover turns his eyes: 
Again she falls, again she dies, she dies! 
How wilt thou now the fatal sisters move? 
No crime was thine, if ’tis no crime to love. 
Now under hanging mountains, 
Beside the fall of fountains, 
Or where Hebrus wanders, 
Rolling in meanders, 
All alone, 
Unheard, unknown, 
He makes his moan; 
And calls her ghost, 
For ever, ever, ever lost! 


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Now with furies surrounded, 
Despairing, confounded, 
He trembles, he glows, 
Amidst Rhodope’s snows: 
See, wild as the winds, o’er the desert he flies; 


Hark! Hzmus resounds with the Bacchanals’ cries 


Ah, see, he dies! 
Yet e’en in death Eurydice he sung; 
Eurydice still trembled on his tongue; 
Eurydice the woods, 
Eurydice the floods, 


Eurydice the rocks and hollow mountains rung. 


Music the fiercest grief can charm, 
And fate’s severest rage disarm; 
Music can soften pain to ease, 
And make despair and madness please: 
Our joys below it can improve, 
And antedate the bliss above. 

This the divine Cecilia found, 


And to her Maker’s praise confined the sound. 


When the full organ joins the tuneful quire, 
The immortal powers incline their ear: 
Borne on the swelling notes our souls aspire, 
While solemn airs improve the sacred fire; 
And angels lean from heaven to hear. 
Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell ; 
To bright Cecilia greater power is given: 
His numbers raised a shade from hell, 

Hers lift the soul to heaven. 


ODE 


THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL 


VITAL spark of heavenly flame! 


Quit, oh quit this mortal frame: 
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying— 


Oh the pain, the bliss of dying! 


Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife, 


And let me languish into life. 


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THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER 


Hark! they whisper; angels say, 

Sister spirit, come away. 

What is this absorbs me quite, 

Steals my senses, shuts my sight, 
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath? 
Tell me, my soul, can this be death? 


The world recedes; it disappears! 
Heaven opens on my eyes! my ears 

With sounds seraphic ring: 
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly! 
Oh grave! where is thy victory? 

Oh death! where is thy sting? 


THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER 


FATHER of all! in every age, 
In every clime adored, 
By saint, by savage, and by sage, 
Jehovah, Jove, our Lord! 


Thou Great First Cause, least understood; 
Who all my sense confined 

To know but this, That thou art good, 
And that myself am blind; 


Yet gave me, in this dark estate, 
To see the good from ill; 

And, binding Nature fast in Fate, 
Left free the human will: 


What conscience dictates to be done, 
Or warns me not to do, 

‘This, teach me more than hell to shun, 
That more than heaven pursue. 


What blessings thy free bounty gives, 
Let me not cast away; 

For God is paid when man receives; 
‘T” enjoy is to obey. 


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ALEXANDER POPE 


Yet not to earth’s contracted span 
Thy goodness let me bound, 

Or think thee Lord alone of man, 
When thousand worlds are round: 


Let not this weak, unknowing hand 
Presume thy bolts to throw, 

And deal damnation round the land, 
On each I judge thy foe. 


If I am right, thy grace impart 
Still in the right to stay; 

If I am wrong, O teach my heart 
To find that better way. 


Save me alike from foolish pride, 
Or impious discontent, 

At aught thy wisdom has denied, 
Or aught thy goodness lent. 


Teach me to feel another’s woe, 
To hide the fault I see; 

That mercy I to others shew, 
‘That mercy shew to me. 


Mean though I am, not wholly so, 
Since quicken’d by thy breath; 

O lead me, wheresoe’er I go, 
Through this day’s life or death. 


This day, be bread and peace my lot: 
All else beneath the sun, 
Thou know’st if best bestow’d or not, 


And let thy will be done. 


To thee, whose temple is all space, 
Whose altar, earth, sea, skies! 

One chorus let all being raise! 
All nature’s incense rise! 


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AN ESSAY ON MAN 


From AN ESSAY ON MAN 


AWAKE, my St. John! leave all meaner things 
To low ambition, and the pride of kings. 

Let us (since life can little more supply 

Than just to look about us, and to die) 
Expatiate free o’er all this scene of man; 

A mighty maze! but not without a plan: 

A wild, where weeds and flowers promiscuous shoot ; 
Or garden, tempting with forbidden fruit. 
Together let us beat this ample field, 

Try what the open, what the covert yield ; 

The latent tracts, the giddy heights explore 

Of all who blindly creep, or sightless soar ; 

Eye nature’s walk, shoot folly as it flies, 

And catch the manners living as they rise: 
Laugh where we must, be candid where we can, 
But vindicate the ways of God to man. 

I. Say first, of God above, or man below, 
What can we reason but from what we know? 
. Of man, what see we but his station here, 
From which to reason, or to which refer? 


Through worlds unnumber’d though the God be known, 


Tis ours to trace him only in our own. 
He, who through vast immensity can pierce, 
See worlds on worlds compose one universe, 
Observe how system into system runs, 
What other planets circle other suns, 
What varied being peoples every star, 
May tell why Heaven has made us as we are. 
But of this frame the bearings and the ties, 
The strong connexions, nice dependencies. 
Gradations just, has thy pervading soul 
Look’d through? or can a part contain the whole? 
Is the great chain, that draws all to agree, 
And drawn supports, upheld by God or thee? 
II. Presumptuous man! the reason wouldst thou find 
Why form’d so weak, so little, and so blind? 


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ALEXANDER POPE 


First, if thou canst, the harder reason guess, 
Why form’d no weaker, blinder, and no less? 
Ask of thy mother earth, why oaks are made 
Taller or stronger than the weeds they shade? 
Or ask of yonder argent fields above, 

Why Jove’s satellites are less than Jove? 

Of systems possible, if ’tis confess’d, 

‘That wisdom infinite must form the best, 
Where all must full or not coherent be, 

And all that rises, rise in due degree; 

Then, in the scale of reasoning life, ’tis plain, 
‘There must be somewhere, such a rank as man: 
And all the question (wrangle e’er so long) 

Is only this, if God has placed him wrong? 

Respecting man, whatever wrong we call 
May, must be right, as relative to all. 

In human works though labor’d on with pain, 
A thousand movements scarce one purpose gain: 
In God’s, one single can its end produce; 

Yet serves to second too some other use. 

So man, who here seems principal alone, 
Perhaps acts second to some sphere unknown, 
Touches some wheel, or verges to some goal: 
Tis but a part we see, and not a whole. 

When the proud steed shall know why man restrains 
His fiery course, or drives him o’er the plains; 
When the dull ox, why now he breaks the clod, 
Is now a victim, and now Egypt’s god: 

Then shall man’s pride and dulness comprehend 
His actions’, passions’, being’s, use and end; 

Why doing, suffering, check’d, impell’d; and why 
This hour a slave, the next a deity. 

Then say not man’s imperfect, Heaven in fault; 
Say rather, man’s as perfect as he ought: 

His knowledge measured to his state and place; 
His time a moment, and a point his space. 

If to be perfect in a certain sphere, 

What matter, soon or late, or here, or there? 


40 


45 


50 


55 


60 


65 


70 


AN ESSAY ON MAN 169 


The bless’d to-day is as completely so, 75 
As who began a thousand years ago. 
III. Heaven from all creatures hides the book of fate, 
All but the page prescribed, their present state: 
From brutes what men, from men what spirits know: 
Or who could suffer being here below? 80 
The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day, 
Had he thy reason, would he skip and play? 
Pleas’d to the last, he crops the flowery food, 
And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood. 
O blindness to the future! kindly given, 85 
That each may fill the circle mark’d by Heaven: 
Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, 
A hero perish, or a sparrow fall, 
Atoms or systems into ruin hurl’d, 
And now a bubble burst, and now a world. 90 
Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions soar ; 
Wait the great teacher, Death; and God adore. 
What future bliss, he gives not thee to know, 
But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. 
Hope springs eternal in the human breast: 95 
Man never is, but always to be bless’d; 
The soul, uneasy, and confined from home, 
Rests and expatiates on a life to come. 
Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutor’d mind 
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind; 100 
His soul proud science never taught to stray 
Far as the solar walk, or milky way; 
Yet simple nature to his hope has given, 
Behind the cloud-topp’d hill, an humbler heaven; 
Some safer world in depth of woods embraced, 105 
Some happier island in the watery waste, 
Where slaves once more their native land behold, 
No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold. 
To be, contents his natural desire, 
He asks no angel’s wing, no seraph’s fire; 110 
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, 
His faithful dog shall bear him company. 


170 ALEXANDER POPE 


IV. Go, wiser thou! and in thy scale of sense, 

Weigh thy opinion against Providence; 

Call imperfection what thou fanciest such; 115 

Say, here he gives too little, there too much: 

Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust, 

Yet say, if man’s unhappy, God’s unjust: 

If man alone engross not Heaven’s high care, 

Alone made perfect here, immortal there: 120 

Snatch from his hand the balance and the rod, 

Re-judge his justice, be the god of God. 

In pride, in reasoning pride, our error lies; 

All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies. 

Pride still is aiming at the bless’d abodes, 125 

Men would be angels, angels would be gods. 

Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell, 

Aspiring to be angels, men rebel: 

And who but wishes to invert the laws — 

Of order, sins against th’ Eternal Cause. 130 
V. Ask for what end the heavenly bodies shine, 

Earth for whose use? Pride answers, ‘” Tis for mine: 

For me kind nature wakes her genial power; 

Suckles each herb, and spreads out every flower; 

Annual for me, the grape, the rose, renew 135 

The juice nectareous, and the balmy dew; 

For me, the mine a thousand treasures brings; 

For me, health gushes from a thousand springs; 

Seas roll to waft me, suns to light me rise; 

My foot-stool earth, my canopy the skies.’ 140 
But errs not nature from this gracious end, 

From burning suns when livid deaths descend, 

When earthquakes swallow, or when tempests sweep 

‘Towns to one grave, whole nations to the deep? 

‘No,’ ’tis replied, ‘the first Almighty Cause 145 

Acts not by partial, but by general laws; 

Th’ exceptions few; some change since all began: 

And what created perfect ?}——Why then man? 

If the great end be human happiness, 

Then nature deviates; and can man do less? 150 

As much that end a constant course requires 


AN ESSAY ON MAN 171 


Of showers and sunshine, as of man’s desires; 
As much eternal springs and cloudless skies, 
As men for ever temperate, calm, and wise. 
If plagues or earthquakes break not Heaven’s design, 155 
Why then a Borgia, or a Catiline? 
Who knows, but he whose hand the lightning forms, 
Who heaves old Ocean, and who wings the storms: 
Pours fierce ambition in a Cesar’s mind, 
Or turns young Ammon loose to scourge mankind? 160 
From pride, from pride, our very reasoning springs; 
Account for moral as for natural things: 
Why charge we Heaven in those, in these acquit? 
In both, to reason right, is to submit. 
Better for us, perhaps, it might appear, 165 
Were there all harmony, all virtue here; 
‘That never air or ocean felt the wind, 
‘That never passion discomposed the mind. 
But all subsists by elemental strife ; 
And passions are the elements of life. 170 
The general order, since the whole began, 
Is kept in nature, and is kept in man. 
VI. What would this man? Now upward will he soar, 
And little less than angel, would be more; 
Now looking downwards, just as grieved appears 175 
To want the strength of bulls, the fur of bears. 
Made for his use all creatures if he call, 
Say what their use, had he the powers of all? 
Nature to these, without profusion, kind, 
The proper organs, proper powers assign’d; 180 
Each seeming want compensated of course 
Here with degrees of swiftness, there of force; 
All is exact proportion to the state; 
Nothing to add, and nothing to abate. 
Each beast, each insect, happy in its own: 185 
Is Heaven unkind to man and man alone? 
Shall he alone, whom rational we call, 
Be pleased with nothing, if not blessed with all? 
The bliss of man (could pride that blessing find) 
Is not to act or think beyond mankind; 190 


172 


ALEXANDER POPE 


No powers of body or of soul to share, 

But what his nature and his state can bear. 
Why has not man a microscopic eye? 

For this plain reason, man is not a fly. 

Say what the use, were finer optics given, 

‘T’ inspect a mite, not comprehend the heaven? 
Or touch, if tremblingly alive all o’er, 

To smart and agonize at every pore? 

Or quick effluvia darting through the brain, 
Die of a rose in aromatic pain? 

If Nature thunder’d in his opening ears, 

And stunn’d him with the music of the spheres, 


How would he wish that Heaven had left him still 


The whispering zephyr, and the purling rill! 
Who finds not Providence all good and wise, 
Alike in what it gives, and what denies? 

VII. Far as creation’s ample range extends, 
The scale of sensual, mental, powers ascends: 
Mark how it mounts to man’s imperial race, 
From the green myriads in the peopled grass: 
What modes of sight betwixt each wide extreme, 
The mole’s dim curtain, and the lynx’s beam; 
Of smell, the headlong lioness between, 

And hound sagacious on the tainted green; 

Of hearing, from the life that fills the flood, 
To that which warbles through the vernal wood! 
The spiders touch how exquisitely fine! 

Feels at each thread, and lives along the line: 
In the nice bee, what sense so subtly true, 

From poisonous herbs extracts the healing dew! 
How instinct varies in the grovelling swine, 
Compared, half-reasoning elephant, with thine! 
*Twixt that and reason what a nice barrier; 

For ever separate, yet for ever near! 
Remembrance and reflection how allied ; 

What thin partitions sense from thought divide! 
And middle natures, how they long to join, 

Yet never pass the insuperable line! 

Without this just gradation, could they be 


195 


200 


205 


210 


215 


220 


225 


AN ESSAY ON MAN 


Subjected, these to those, or all to thee? 
The powers of all subdued by thee alone, 
Is not thy reason all these powers in one? 


VIII. See, through this air, this ocean, and this earth, 


All matter quick, and bursting into birth. 
Above, how high progressive life may go! 
Around, how wide! how deep extend below! 
Vast chain of being! which from God began, 
Natures ethereal, human, angel, man, 

Beast, bird, fish, insect, what no eye can see, 
No glass can reach; from infinite to thee, 

From thee to nothing.—On superior powers 
Were we to press, inferior might on ours; 

Or in the full creation leave a void, 

Where, one step broken, the great scale’s destroy’d: 
From nature’s chain whatever link you strike, 
Tenth, or ten thousandth, breaks the chain alike. 

And, if each system in gradation roll 

Alike essential to the amazing whole, 

The least confusion but in one, not all 

That system only, but the whole must fall. 

Let earth unbalanced from her orbit fly, 
Planets and suns run lawless through the sky; 
Let ruling angels from their spheres be hurl’d, 
Being on being wreck’d, and world on world; 
Heaven’s whole foundations to their center nod, 
And nature trembles to the throne of God. 

All this dread order break—for whom? for thee? 
Vile worm!—oh madness! pride! impiety! 

IX. What if the foot, ordain’d the dust to tread, 
Or hand, to toil, aspired to be the head ? 
What if the head, the eye, or ear, repined 
To serve mere engines to the ruling mind ? 

Just as absurd for any part to claim 

To be another in this general frame: 

Just as absurd, to mourn the tasks or pains 

The great directing Mind of all ordains. 
All are but parts of one stupendous whole, 


Whose body Nature is, and God the soul; 


173 


230 


235 


240 


245 


250 


255 


260 


265 


174 JOHN LINGARD 


That, changed through all, and yet in all the same; 

Great in the earth, as in th’ ethereal frame; 270 

Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, 

Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees; 

Lives through all life, extends through all extent, 

Spreads undivided, operates unspent ; 

Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, 275 

As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart; 

As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns, 

As the rapt seraph that adores and burns: 

To him no high, no low, no great, no small; 

He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all. 280 
X. Cease then, nor order imperfection name: 

Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. 

Know thy own point: this kind, this due degree 

Of blindness, weakness, Heaven bestows on thee. 

Submit.—In this, or any other sphere, 285 

Secure to be as bless’d as thou canst bear: 

Safe in the hand of one disposing Power, 

Or in the natal, or the mortal hour. 

All nature is but art, unknown to thee; 

All chance, direction which thou canst not see; 290 

All discord, harmony not understood ; 

All partial evil, universal good. 

And, spite of pride, in erring reason’s spite, 

One truth is clear, WHATEVER IS, IS RIGHT. 


TT OEUNS TENG G AVR DD 
I77I—=1851 


John Lingard, priest, scholar, and historian, was born in Win- 
chester in 1771. Leaning early toward the priesthood, he entered 
Douai in 1782, where he so distinguished himself as to be retained 
as professor upon the completion of his studies. 

During the French Revolution he returned to England and was 
given charge of the studies of the Douai refugees at Crook Hall in 
Durham, acting as professor of church history. While thus engaged 
he began his researches into English history, which later were to de- 
velop into his life work. 


HISTORY OF ENGLAND 176 


Retiring to a small mission at Hornby in 1811, he devoted himself 
to the composition: of his History of England, seldom leaving the 
place of his retirement, except for short journeys to the continent in 
order to consult manuscripts, until the time of his death in 1851. 

Lingard’s History of England is remarkable for two character- 
istics: first, its close adherence to the documents upon which it is 
based—hence its authority; and second, its calm, unimpassioned pres- 
entation of fact in a style at once clear and yet colorful—hence its 
widespread influence. 


From HISTORY OF ENGLAND 


MARY 


HE declining health of Edward had attracted the notice 

of the neighboring courts: to the two rival sovereigns, 

Charles V. of Germany, and Henry II. of France, it 
offered a new subject of political intrigue. The presumptive heir 
to the sick king was his sister Mary, a princess who, ever since 
the death of her father, had been guided by the advice, and under 
persecution had been protected by the remonstrances, of the em- 
peror. Gratitude, as well as consanguinity, must attach her to 
the interests of her benefactor and relative; probably she would, 
in the event of her succession, throw the power of England into 
the scale against the pretensions of France: it was even possible 
that partiality to the father might induce her to accept the son for 
her husband. On these accounts both princes looked forward with 
considerable solicitude to the approaching death of Edward, and 
to the result of the plot contrived by the ambition of Northum- 
berland. 

Charles had despatched from Brussels, Montmorency, Marnix, 
and Renard, as ambassadors extraordinary to the English court. 
They came under the pretence of visiting the infirm monarch; 
but the real object was to watch the proceedings of the council, 
to study the resources of the different parties, to make friends 
for the lady Mary, and, as far as prudence would allow, to pro- 
mote her succession to the throne. 

‘The same reasons which induced the emperor to favor, urged 
the king of France to oppose, the interest of Mary. Aware of 
the design of his rival, Henry despatched to London the bishop 
of Orleans, and the Chevalier de Gye, with instructions to coun- 


176 JOHN LINGARD 


teract the attempts of the imperial envoys; but the slow progress of 
these ministers was anticipated by the industry and address of 
Noailles, the resident ambassador, who, though he would not 
commit his sovereign by too explicit an avowal of his sentiments, 
readily offered to the council the aid of France, if foreigners: should 
attempt to disturb the tranquillity of the realm. The hint was 
sufficient. Northumberland saw that he had nothing to fear, but 
everything to hope, from the policy of the French monarch. 

It was on the evening of the sixth of July that Edward expired 
at Greenwich. With the view of concealing his death for some 
days from the knowledge of the public, the guards had been 
previously doubled in the palace, and all communication inter- 
cepted between his chamber and the other apartments. Yet that 
very night, while the lords sat in deliberation, the secret was 
communicated to Mary by a note, probably from the earl of Arun- 
del, unfolding the design of the conspirators. She was then at 
Hoddesdon, in the neighborhood of London, and, had she hesi- 
tated, would by the next morning have been a prisoner in the 
Tower. Without losing a moment she mounted her horse, and 
rode with the servants of her household to Kenninghall, in 
Norfolk. 

The council broke up after midnight; and Clinton, the lord 
admiral, took possession of the Tower, with the royal treasures, 
the munitions of war, and the prisoners of state. “The three next 
days were employed in making such previous arrangements as were 
thought necessary for the success of the enterprise. While the 
death of Edward was yet unknown, the officers of the guards and 
of the household, the lord mayor, six aldermen, and twelve of the 
principal citizens, were summoned before the council. All were 
informed of the recent settlement of the crown, and required to 
take an oath of allegiance to the new sovereign; the latter were 
dismissed with an injunction not to betray the secret, and to watch 
over the tranquillity of the city. On the fourth morning it was 
determined to publish the important intelligence; and the chief 
of lords, attended by a numerous escort, rode to Sion House to 
announce to the lady Jane her succession to the throne of her royal 
cousin. 

Jane has been described to us as a young woman of gentle man- 
ners, and superior talents, addicted to the study of the scriptures 


HISTORY OF ENGLAND 177 


and the classics, but fonder of dress than suited the austere notions 
of the reformed preachers. Of the designs of the duke of North- 
umberland in her favor, and of the arts by which he had deceived 
the simplicity of Edward, she knew nothing; nor had she suffered 
the dark and mysterious predictions of the duchess to make any 
impression on her mind. Her love of privacy had induced her 
to solicit, what in the uncertain state of the king’s health was 
readily granted, permission to leave London, and to spend a few 
days at Chelsea; she was indulging herself in this retirement, 
when she received by the lady Sydney, her husband’s sister, an 
order from the council to return immediately to Sion House, and 
to await there the commands of the king. She obeyed; and the 
next morning was visited by the duke of Northumberland, the 
marquess of Northampton, and the earls of Arundel, Huntingdon, 
and Pembroke. At first, the conversation turned on indifferent 
subjects, but there was in their manner an air of respect, which 
awakened some uneasiness in her mind, and seemed to explain the 
hints already given to her by her mother-in-law. Soon afterward 
that lady entered, accompanied by the duchess of Suffolk and the 
marchioness of Northampton; and the duke, addressing the lady 
Jane, informed her that the king her cousin was dead; that before 
he expired, he had prayed to God to preserve the realm 
from the infection of papistry, and the misrule of his sisters Mary 
and Elizabeth; that, on account of their being illegitimate, and by 
the act of parliament incapable of the succession, he had resolved 
to pass them by, and to leave the crown in the right line; and that 
he had therefore commanded the council to proclaim her, the lady 
Jane, his lawful heir, and in default of her and her issue, her two 
sisters, Catherine and Mary. At the words the lords fell on 
their knees, declared that they took her for their sovereign, and 
swore that they were ready to shed their blood in support of her 
right. The reader may easily conceive the agitation of spirits 
which a communication so important and unlooked for was likely 
to create in a young woman of timid habits and delicate health. 
She trembled, uttered a shriek, and sank to the ground. On her 
recovery she observed to those around her, that she seemed to 
herself a very unfit person to be a queen; but that, if the right 
were hers, she trusted God would give her strength to wield the 
scepter to his honor and the benefit of the nation. 


178 JOHN LINGARD 


Such is the account of this transaction given, about a month 
afterwards, by Jane herself, in a letter from the Tower to Queen 
Mary. ‘The feelings which she describes are such as one might ex- 
pect: surprise at the annunciation, grief for the death of her royal 
cousin, and regret to quit a station in which she had been happy. 
But modern writers have attributed to her much of which she 
seems to have been ignorant herself. ‘The beautiful language 
which they put into her mouth, her forcible reasoning in favor 
of the claim of Mary, her philosophic contempt of the splendor 
of royalty, her refusal to accept a crown which was not her right, 
and her reluctant submission to the commands of her parents, 
must be considered as the fictions of historians, who, in their zeal 
to exalt the character of the heroine, seem to have forgotten that 
she was only sixteen years of age. 

About three in the afternoon, the young queen was conducted 
by water to the Tower, the usual residence of our kings prepara- 
tory to their coronation. She made her entry in state. Her train 
was borne by her mother, the duchess of Suffolk; the lord treasurer 
presented her with the crown; and her relations saluted her on 
their knees. At six the same evening, the heralds proclaimed the 
death of Edward and the succession of Jane; and a printed instru- 
ment with her signature was circulated, to acquaint the people 
with the grounds of her claim. It alleged: 1. That though the 
succession, by the thirty-fifth of Henry VIII., stood limited to the 
ladies Mary and Elizabeth, yet neither of them could take any 
thing under that act, because, by a previous statute of the twenty- 
eighth of the same reign, which still remained in force, both daugh- 
ters had been pronounced illegitimate, and incapable of inheriting 
the crown; 2. That even, had they been born in lawful wedlock, 
they could have no claim to the succession after Edward, because 
being his sisters only by the half-blood, they could not inherit 
from him according to the ancient laws and customs of the realm; 
3. That the fact of their being single women ought to be a bar to 
their claim, as by their subsequent marriages they might place the 
sovereign power in the hands of a foreign despot, who would be 
able to subvert the liberties of the people, and to restore the juris- 
diction of the bishop of Rome; 4. That these considerations had 
moved the late king to limit, by his letters patent, the inheritance 
of the crown in the first place to the lawful issue of the duchess of 


HISTORY OF ENGLAND 179 


Suffolk, her male issue, if any were born to her during his life, 
otherwise to her daughters and their issue in succession, and after 
them to the daughter of the late countess of Cumberland, sister to 
the said duchess, and to her issue, inasmuch as the said ladies were 
nigh to him of blood, and “naturally born within the realm’’; 
5. And that therefore the lady Jane, the eldest daughter of the 
duchess of Suffolk, had now taken upon herself, as belonging to 
her of right, the government of the kingdom of England and Ire- 
land, and of all their dependencies. “To the arguments contained 
in this labored proclamation the people listened in ominous 
silence. “They had so long considered Mary the presumptive heir, 
that they did not comprehend how her claim could be defeated by 
any pretensions of a daughter of the house of Suffolk. Not a 
single voice was heard in approbation; a vintner’s boy had the 
temerity to express his dissent, and the next day paid the forfeit 
of his folly with the loss of his ears. 

The following morning arrived at the Tower a messenger from 
Mary, the bearer of a letter to the lords, in which, assuming the 
style and tone of their sovereign, she upbraided them with their 
neglect to inform her of the death of her brother, hinted her 
knowledge of their disloyal intention to oppose her right, and 
commanded them, as they hoped for favor, to proclaim her acces- 
sion immediately in the metropolis, and as soon as possible, in all 
other parts of the kingdom. 

This communication caused no change in their counsels, awak- 
ened no apprehension in their minds. Mary was a single and 
defenceless female, unprepared to vindicate her right, without 
money, and without followers. J'hey had taken every precaution 
to insure success. ‘The exercise of the royal authority was in their 
hands; the royal treasures were at their disposal; the guards had 
sworn obedience; a fleet of twenty armed vessels lay in the river; 
and a body of troops had been assembled in the Isle of Wight, 
ready at any moment to execute orders. Depending on their 
own resources, contrasted with the apparent helplessness of their 
adversary, they affected to dread her flight more than her resist- 
ance, and returned an answer under the signatures of the arch- 
bishop, the chancellor, and twenty-one councillors, requiring her 
to abandon her false claim, and to submit as a dutiful subject to 
her lawful and undoubted sovereign. 


180 JOHN LINGARD 


In a few hours the illusion vanished. ‘The mass of people 
knew little of the lady Jane, but all had heard of the ambition 
of Northumberland. His real object, it was said, was now un- 
masked. ‘To deprive the late king of his nearest relatives and 
protectors, he had persuaded Somerset to take the life of the lord 
admiral, and Edward to take that of Somerset. The royal youth 
was the next victim. He had been removed by poison to make 
room for the lady Jane, who, in her turn, would be compelled to 
yield the crown to Northumberland himself. “These reports were 
circulated and believed, and the public voice, wherever it might be 
expressed with impunity, was unanimous in favor of Mary. 
‘The very day on which the answer to her letter had been de- 
spatched brought the alarming intelligence that she was already 
joined by the earls of Bath and Sussex, and by the eldest sons of 
the lords Wharton and Mordant; that the gentlemen of the 
neighboring counties were hastening to her aid with their tenants 
and dependants; and that in a short time a numerous and formid- 
able army would be embattled under her banners. Northumber- 
land saw the necessity of despatch: but how could he venture to 
leave the capital, where his presence awed the disaffected and 
secured the codperation of his colleagues? He proposed to give 
the command of the forces to the duke of Suffolk, whose affection 
for his daughter was a pledge of his fidelity, and whose want of 
military experience might be supplied by the knowledge of his 
associates. But he could not deceive the secret partisans of Mary, 
who saw his perplexity, and to liberate themselves from his con- 
trol, urged him to take the command upon himself. ‘They 
praised his skill, his valor, and his good fortune; they exaggerated 
the insufficiency of Suffolk, and the consequences to be apprehended 
from a defeat; and they prevailed upon Jane, through anxiety for 
her father, to unite with them in their entreaties to Northumber- 
land. He gave a tardy and reluctant consent. When he took 
leave of his colleagues he exhorted them to fidelity with an earnest- 
ness which betrayed his apprehensions; and, as he rode through 
the city at the head of the troops, he remarked, in a tone of despon- 
dency, to Sir John Gates, “The people crowd to look upon us, but 
not one exclaims, ‘God speed ye.’ ”’ 

From the beginning the duke mistrusted the fidelity of the citi 


HISTORY OF ENGLAND 181 


zens: before his departure he requested the aid of the preachers, 
and exhorted them to appeal from the pulpit to the religious feel- 
ings of their hearers. By no one was the task performed with 
greater zeal than by Ridley, Bishop of London, who, on the follow- 
ing Sunday, preached at St. Paul’s Cross before the lord mayor, 
the aldermen, and a numerous assemblage of the people. He 
maintained that the daughters of Henry VIII. were, by the ille- 
gitimacy of their birth, excluded from the succession. He con- 
trasted the opposite characters of the present competitors, the 
gentleness, the piety, the orthodoxy of the one, with the haughti- 
ness, the foreign connections, and the popish creed of the other. 
As a proof of Mary’s bigotry, he narrated a chivalrous but unsuc- 
cessful attempt, which he had made within the last year, to with- 
draw her from, the errors of popery; and in conclusion, he 
conjured the audience, as they prized the pure light of the gospel, 
to support the cause of the lady Jane, and to oppose the claim of 
her idolatrous rival. But the torrent of his eloquence was poured 
in vain. Among his hearers there were many indifferent to either 
form of worship. Of the rest, the Protestants had not yet learned 
that religious belief could affect hereditary right: and the Catholics 
were confirmed by the bishop’s arguments in their adhesion to the 
interests of Mary. 

That princess, to open a communication with the emperor in 
Flanders, had unexpectedly left Kenninghall; and, riding forty 
miles without rest, had reached, on the same evening, the castle of 
Framlingham. ‘There her hopes were hourly cheered with the 
most gratifying intelligence. “The earl of Essex, the lord Thomas 
Howard, the Jerninghams, Bedingfelds, Sulyards, Pastons, and 
most of the neighboring gentlemen, successively arrived, with 
their tenants, to fight under her standard. Sir Edward Hastings, 
Sir Edmund Peckham, and Sir Robert Drury, had levied ten thou- 
sand men in the counties of Oxford, Buckingham, Berks, and 
Middlesex, and purposed to march from Drayton for Westminster 
and the palace; her more distant friends continued to send her 
presents of money, and offers of service; Henry Jerningham pre- 
vailed on a hostile squadron, of six sail, to acknowledge her 
authority; and a timely supply of arms and ammunition from the 
ships relieved the more urgent wants of her adherents. In a few 


182 JOHN LINGARD 


days Mary was surrounded by more than thirty thousand men, all 
volunteers in her cause, who refused to receive pay, and served 
through the sole motive of loyalty. 

In this emergency, doubt and distrust seem to have unnerved the 
mind of Northumberland, who had marched from Cambridge, in 
the direction of Framlingham, accompanied by his son the earl of 
Warwick, by the marquess of Northampton, the earl of Hunting- 
don, and the lord Grey. With an army of eight thousand in- 
fantry, and two thousand cavalry, inferior, indeed, in number to 
his opponents, but infinitely superior in military appointments and 
discipline, he might, by a bold and immediate attack, have dis- 
persed the tumultuary force of the royalists, and have driven Mary 
across the sea, to the court of her imperial cousin. But he saw, 
as he advanced, the enthusiasm of the people in her cause; he heard 
that he had been proclaimed a rebel, and that a price had been 
fixed on his head; and he feared that Sir Edward Hastings would, 
in a few days, cut off his communication with the capital. At 
Bury his heart failed him. He ordered a retreat to Cambridge, 
and wrote to the council for numerous and immediate reinforce- 
ment. “The men perceived the irresolution of their leader; their 
ignorance of his motives gave birth to the most disheartening 
reports; and their ranks were hourly thinned by desertion. 

In the council there appeared no diminution of zeal, no want of 
unanimity. It was resolved to send for a body of mercenaries, 
which had been raised in Picardy, to issue commissions for the 
levying of troops in the vicinity of the metropolis, and to offer 
eight crowns per month, besides provisions, to volunteers. But, as 
such tardy expedients did not met the urgency of the case, the 
lords proposed to separate, and hasten to the army, at the head of 
their respective friends and dependants. ‘Though Suffolk had been 
instructed to detain them within the walls of the Tower, he either 
saw not their object, or dared not oppose their pleasure. The next 
morning the lord treasurer and lord privy seal, the earls of Arun- 
del, Shrewsbury, and Pembroke, Sir “Thomas Cheney, and Sir 
John Mason, left the fortress under the pretence of receiving the 
French ambassador at Baynard’s Castle, a fitter place, it was said, 
for that purpose than the Tower. 

There they were joined by the lord mayor, the recorder, and 
a deputation of aldermen, who had been summoned by a trusty 


HISTORY OF ENGLAND 183 


messenger; and the discussion was opened by the earl of Arundel, 
who, in a set speech, declaimed against the ambition of Northum- 
berland, and asserted the right of the two daughters of Henry 
VIII. The moment he had finished, the earl of Pembroke drew 
his sword, exclaiming, “If the arguments of my lord of Arundel 
do not persuade you, this sword shall make Mary queen, or I will 
die in her quarrel.” He was answered with shouts of approba- 
tion, and Suffolk, who had been sent for, signed with the others the 
proclamation of Mary. ‘The whole body then rode in procession 
through the city. At St. Paul’s Cross the earl of Pembroke 
proclaimed the new queen amidst the deafening acclamations of 
the populace. Te Deum was sung in the cathedral; beer, wine, 
and money were distributed among the people; and the night was 
ushered in with bonfires, illuminations, and the accustomed demon- 
strations of public joy. 

While the earl of Arundel and the lord Paget carried the intel- 
ligence of this revolution to Framlingham, the earl of Pembroke, 
with his company of the guard, took possession of the Tower. 
The next morning the lady Jane departed to Sion House. Her 
reign had lasted but nine days; and they had been days of anxiety 
and distress. She had suffered much from her own apprehensions 
of an unfortunate result, more from the displeasure of her husband, 
and the imperious humor of his mother. The moment she was 
gone, the lords, without any distinction of party, united in sending 
an order to Northumberland to disband his forces, and to acknowl- 
edge Mary for his sovereign. But he had already taken the only 
part which prudence suggested. Sending for the vice-chancellor, 
Doctor Sands, who, on the preceding Sunday, had preached against 
the daughters of Henry, he proceeded to the market-place, where, 
with tears of grief running down his cheeks, he proclaimed the 
lady Mary, and threw his cap into the air, in token of joy. Dur- 
ing the night he was prevented from making his escape by the 
vigilance of his own men; and on the following morning he was 
arrested on a charge of high treason, by the earl of Arundel, and 
conducted, with several of his associates, to the Tower. It re- 
quired a strong guard to protect the prisoners from the vengeance 
of the populace. 

The lady Elizabeth had taken no part in this contest. To a 
messenger, indeed, from Northumberland, who offered her a large 


184 JOHN LINGARD 


sum of money, and a valuable grant of lands, as the price of her 
voluntary renunciation of all right to the succession, she replied, 
that she had no right to renounce, as long as her elder sister was 
living. But, if she did not join the lady Jane, she did nothing 
in aid of the lady Mary. Under the excuse of a real or feigned 
indisposition, she confined herself to her chamber, that, whichever 
party proved victorious, she might claim the negative merit of 
non-resistance. Now, however, the contest was at an end: the 
new queen approached her capital; and Elizabeth deemed it 
prudent to court the favor of the conqueror. At the head of a 
hundred and fifty horse, she met her at Aldgate. They rode 
together in triumphal procession through the streets, which were 
lined with different crafts in their gayest attire. Every eye was di- 
rected toward the royal sisters. “Those who had seen Henry VIII. 
and Catherine could discover little in the queen to remind 
them of the majestic port of her father, or of the beautiful features 
and graceful carriage of her mother. Her figure was short and 
small; the lines of care were deeply impressed on her countenance; 
and her dark piercing eyes struck with awe all those on whom they 
were fixed. In personal appearance Elizabeth had the advantage. 
She was in the bloom of youth, about half the age of the quecn. 
Without much pretension to beauty, she could boast of agreeable 
features, large blue eyes, a tall and portly figure, and of hands, the 
elegant symmetry of which she was proud to display on every 
occasion. As they passed, their ears were stunned with the accla- 
mations of the people; when they entered the Tower, they found 
kneeling on the green, the state prisoners, the duchess of Somerset, 
the duke of Norfolk, the son of the late marquess of Exeter, and 
Tunstall and Gardiner, the deprived bishops of Durham and 
Winchester. ‘The latter pronounced a short congratulatory ad- 
dress. Mary burst into tears, called them her prisoners, bade them 
rise, and having kissed them, gave them their liberty. “The same 
day she ordered a dole to be distributed, of eight pence, to every 
poor householder in the city. 

In the appointment of her official advisers, the new queen was 
directed by necessity as much as choice. If the lords who, escaping 
from the Tower, had proclaimed her in the city, expected to retain 
their former situations, the noblemen and gentlemen who had ad- 
hered to her fortunes, when every probability was against her, had 


HISTORY OF ENGLAND 186 


still more powerful claims on her gratitude. She sought to satisfy 
both classes, by admitting them into her council; and to these she 
successively added a few others, among whom the chief were the 
bishops Gardiner and Tunstall, who, under her father, had been 
employed in offices of trust, and had discharged them with fidelity 
and success. “The acknowledged abilities of the former soon raised 
him to the post of prime minister. He first received the custody 
of the seals, and was soon afterwards appointed chancellor. ‘The 
next to him, in ability and influence in the council, was the lord 
Paget. 

‘Though the queen found herself unexpectedly in debt from the 
policy of Northumberland, who had kept the officers and servants 
of the crown three years in arrears of their salaries, she issued 
two proclamations, which drew upon her the blessings of the whole 
nation. By the first she restored a depreciated currency to its 
original value, ordered a new coinage of sovereigns and _half- 
sovereigns, angels and half-angels, of fine gold, and of silver 
groats, half-groats, and pennies of the standard purity; and charged 
the whole loss and expense to the treasury. By the other she 
remitted to her people, in gratitude for their attachment to her 
right, the subsidy of four shillings in the pound on land, and two 
shillings and eight pence on goods, which had been granted to the 
crown by the late parliament. As the time of her coronation ap- 
proached, the queen introduced, within the palace an innovation 
highly gratifying to the younger branches of the female nobility, 
though it foreboded little good to the reformed preachers. Under 
Edward, their fanaticism had given to the court a somber and 
funereal appearance. ‘That they might exclude from it the pomps 
of the devil, they had strictly forbidden all richness of apparel, and 
every fashionable amusement. But Mary, who recollected with 
pleasure the splendid gaieties of her father’s reign, appeared pub- 
licly in jewels and colored silks; the ladies, emancipated from 
restraint, copied her example; and the courtiers, encouraged by the 
approbation of their sovereign, presumed to dress with a splendor 
that became their rank in the state. A new impulse was thus 
communicated to all classes of persons; and considerable sums were 
expended by the citizens in public and private decorations, pre- 
paratory to the coronation. ‘That ceremony was performed after 
the ancient rite, by Gardiner bishop of Winchester, and was 


186 JOHN LINGARD 


concluded in the usual manner, with a magnificent banquet in 
Westminster Hall. The same day a general pardon was pro- 
claimed, with the exception, by name, of sixty individuals who had 
been committed to prison, or confined to their own houses, by order 
of the council, for treasonable or seditious offences committed since 
the queen’s accession. 

But though Mary was now firmly seated on the throne, she 
found herself without a friend to whom she could open her mind 
with freedom and safety. Among the leading members of her 
council there was not one who had not, in the reigns of her father 
or her brother, professed himself her enemy; nor did she now dare 
to trust them with her confidence, till she had assured herself of 
their fidelity. In this distress she had recourse to the prince who 
had always proved himself her friend, and who, she had persuaded 
herself, could have no interest in deceiving her. She solicited the 
advice of the emperor on three very important questions: the pun- 
ishment of those who had conspired to deprive her of the crown, 
the choice of her future husband, and restoration of the ancient 
worship. It was agreed between them that the correspondence on 
these subjects should pass through the hands of the imperial 
ambassador, Simon de Renard, and that he, to elude suspicion, 
should live in comparative privacy, and very seldom make his 
appearance at court. 

1. To the first question Charles replied, that it was the common 
interest of sovereigns that rebellion should not go unpunished; but 
that she ought to blend mercy with justice; and, having inflicted 
speedy vengeance on the chief of the conspirators, to grant a free 
and unsolicited pardon to the remainder. In compliance with this 
advice, Mary had selected out of the list of prisoners seven only for 
immediate trial: the duke of Northumberland, the contriver and 
executor of the plot, his son, the earl of Warwick, the marquess of 
Northampton, Sir John Gates, Sir Henry Gates, Sir Andrew 
Dudley, and Sir Thomas Palmer, his principal counsellors and 
constant associates. It was in vain that the imperial ministers 
urged her to include the lady Jane in the number. Were she 
spared, the queen, they alleged, could never reign in security. “The 
first faction that dared would again set her up as a rival. She 
had usurped the crown, and policy required that she should pay 
the forfeit of her presumption. But Mary undertook her defence. 


HISTORY OF ENGLAND 187 


She could not, she said, find it in her heart or in her conscience to 
put her unfortunate cousin to death. Jane was not so guilty as the 
emperor believed. She had not been the accomplice of North- 
umberland, but merely a puppet in his hands. Neither was she 
his daughter-in-law ; for she had been validly contracted to another 
person, before she was compelled to marry Guilford Dudley. As 
for the danger arising from her pretensions, it was but imaginary. 
Every requisite precaution might be taken, before she was restored 
to liberty. 

For the trial of the three noblemen, the duke of Norfolk had 
been appointed high steward. When they were brought before 
their peers, Northumberland submitted to the consideration of the 
court the following questions: Could that man be guilty of trea- 
son who had acted by the authority of the prince and council, and 
under the warrant of the great seal; or could those persons sit in 
judgment upon him, who, during the whole proceedings, had been 
his advisers and accomplices? It was replied, that the great seal 
of which he spoke was not that of the sovereign, but of an usurper, 
and that the lords to whom he alluded were able in law to sit as 
judges, so long as there was no record of attainder against them. 
In these answers he acquiesced, pleaded guilty, together with his 
companions, and petitioned the queen that she would commute his 
punishment into decapitation; that mercy might be extended to 
his children, who had acted under his direction; that he might 
have the aid of an able divine to prepare himself for death; and 
might be allowed to confer with two lords of the council on cer- 
tain secrets of state which had come to his knowledge while he was 
prime minister. ‘Io these requests Mary assented. 


THOMAS MOORE 
1779-1852 


Thomas Moore, poet, and writer of songs, was born in Dublin in 
1779. Beginning his education in a private school kept by the famous 
Samuel Whyte, he completed his studies at Dublin University, be- 
coming highly skilled in the languages and in music. 

In 1799 he went to London, taking with him his Odes to Anacreon, 
and entered the Middle Temple for the purpose of studying law. 


188 THOMAS MOORE 


Obtaining the patronage, however, of the Prince Regent and achiev- 
ing a considerable success in the publication of his Odes, he turned 
from the law to literature, devoting himself to the writing of verse. 

In 1803 he became Registrar to the Court of Admiralty in Ber- 
muda. Proceeding there, he found the post uncongenial and ap- 
pointed a deputy to fill it for him. For a time, then, he traveled in 
America and returned to England, where, in 1806, he published his 
Odes and Epistles. ‘This volume, which contained political satires 
upon America and many poems relating to it, was abused by the 
Edinburgh Review with such severity that Moore challenged its edi- 
tor, Jeffrey, to a duel. ‘The duel was prevented and Moore and 
Jeffrey became the best of friends. In like manner the poet became 
intimate with Byron, who ridiculed him in his English Bards and 
Scotch Reviewers in such fashion as to provoke a challenge from 
Moore. 

Gradually building up a circle of powerful acquaintances, Moore 
found himself eventually a fashionable figure in London. ‘The suc- 
cess of his writing was assured and his subsequent volumes estab- 
lished firmly his position in the literature. 

His principal volumes are, besides those mentioned: Irish Melodies, 
1811; Lalla Rookh, 1817; Sacred and National Melodies, 1819-1823; 
Loves of the Angels, 1823; and Rhymes of the Road, 1823. 


OH, TEACH ME TO LOVE THEE 


OH, TEACH me to love Thee, to feel what Thou art, 
Till, fill’d with the one sacred image, my heart 
Shall all other passions disown; 
Like some pure temple, that shines apart, 
Reserv’d for Thy worship alone. 5 


In joy and in sorrow, through praise and through blame, 
Thus still let me, living and dying the same, 

In Thy service bloom and decay— 
Like some lone altar, whose votive flame 

In holiness wasteth away. 10 


Though born in this desert, and doom’d by my birth 
To pain and affliction, to darkness and dearth, 
On Thee let my spirit rely— 
Like some rude dial, that, fix’d on earth, 
Still looks for its light from the sky. 15 


TURE SHALL BE MY FRAGRANT SHRINE _ 184 


A CANADIAN BOAT SONG 


FAINTLY as tolls the evening chime 

Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time, 

Soon as the woods on shore look dim, 

We'll sing at St. Ann’s our parting hymn. 

Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast, 5 
The Rapids are near and the daylight’s past. 


Why should we yet our sail unfurl? 
There is not a breath the blue wave to curl; 
But, when the wind blows off the shore, 
Oh, sweetly we'll rest our weary oar. 10 
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, 
The Rapids are near and the daylight’s past. 


Utawas’ tide! this trembling moon 
Shall see us float over thy surges soon. 
Saint of this green isle! hear our prayers, 15 
Oh, grant us cool heavens and favoring airs. 
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, 
The Rapids are near and the daylight’s past. 


THE TURF SHALL BE MY FRAGRANT SHRINE 


THE turf shall be my fragrant shrine; 
My temple, Lord! that Arch of thine; 
My censer’s breath the mountain airs, 
And silent thoughts my only prayers. 


My choice shall be the moonlight waves, 5 
When murm’ring homeward to their caves, 

Or when the stillness of the sea, 

Even more than music, breathes of Thee! 


I'll seek, by day, some glade unknown, 

All light and silence, like thy Throne; 10 
And the pale stars shall be, at night, 

The only eyes that watch my rite. 


1Q9 THOMAS MOORE 


Thy Heaven, on which ’tis bliss to look, 
Shall be my pure and shining book, 
Where I shall read, in words of flame, 
The glories of thy wondrous name. 


I'll read thy anger in the rack 

That clouds awhile the day-beam’s track; 
‘Thy mercy in the azure hue 

Of sunny brightness, breaking through. 


There’s nothing bright, above, below, 

From flowers that bloom to stars that glow, 
But in its light my soul can see 

Some feature of thy Deity. 


‘There’s nothing dark, below, above, 
But in its gloom I trace thy Love, 

And meekly wait that moment, when 
Thy touch shall turn all bright again! 


THE BIRD, LET LOOSE 


‘THE bird, let loose in eastern skies, 
When hast’ning fondly home, 

Ne’er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies 
Where idle warblers roam. 

But high she shoots through air and light, 
Above all low delay, 

Where nothing earthly bounds her flight, 
Nor shadow dims her way. 


So grant me, God, from every care 
And stain of passion free, 

Aloft, through Virtue’s purer air, 
To hold my course to Thee! 

No sin to cloud, no lure to stay 
My Soul, as home she springs ;— 

Thy Sunshine on her joyful way, 
Thy Freedom in her wings! 


THOSE EVENING BELLS Tor 


THOSE EVENING BELLS 


THOsE evening bells! those evening bells! 
How many a tale their music tells, 

Of youth, and home, and that sweet time, 
When last I heard their soothing chime. 


Those joyous hours are pass’d away; 5 
And many a heart, that then was gay, 

Within the tomb now darkly dwells, 

And hears no more those evening bells. 


And so ’twill be when I am gone; 

That tuneful peal will still ring on, 10 
While other bards shall walk these dells, 

And sing your praise, sweet evening bells! 


MICHAEL BANIM 
1790—1874 


JOHN BANIM 
1798—1842 


Michael and John Banim, novelists, were born in Ireland, Michael 
in 1796, and John in 1798. After the usual elementary training, 
Michael began the study of law but soon had to give it up in order 
to help his father, whose business was failing, but John entered Kil- 
kenny College in 1810 and proceeded in 1813 to Dublin to study art. 

The brothers, after some literary experience on the part of John, 
collaborated in 1822 in the writing of the Tales of the O’Hara 
Family. The work was eminently successful, so successful, in fact, 
that John, who had no fixed occupation, resolved to devote himself 
to writing, and in time became widely distinguished. Michael, how- 
ever, because of his business, was not so independent. He did, never- 
theless, continue to write, and to such extent that of a total of twenty- 
four volumes written by both, he contributed ten. 

The Banims can justly be called the first national novelists of Ire- 
land. It was their purpose to represent Ireland as Sir Walter Scott 


192 MICHAEL BANIM—JOHN BANIM 


represented Scotland. How well they succeeded critics as yet 

disagree. In their own day, however, they were immensely popular. 

So highly were they esteemed, indeed, that John was awarded an 

annual pension by the Government and Michael, after his retirement 

from business, was given the postmastership of Kilkenny for life. 
John died in 1842, but Michael not until 1874. 


THE STOLEN SHEEP 
AN IRISH SKETCH 


HE faults of the lower orders of the Irish are sufficiently 

well known; perhaps their virtues have not been propor- 

tionately observed or recorded for observation. At all 
events, it is but justice to them, and it cannot conflict with any 
established policy, or do any one any harm to exhibit them in a 
favorable light to their British fellow-subjects, as often as strict 
truth will permit. In this view the following story is written— 
the following facts, indeed ; for we have a newspaper report before 
us, which shall be very slightly departed from while we make our 
copy of it. 

The Irish plague, called typhus fever, raged in its terrors. In 
almost every third cabin there was a corpse daily. In every one, 
without an exception, there was what had made the corpse— 
hunger. It need not be added that there was poverty, too. ‘The 
poor could not bury: their dead. From mixed motives of self- 
protection, terror, and benevolence, those in easier circumstances 
exerted themselves to administer relief, in different ways. Money 
was subscribed (then came England’s munificent donation—God 
prosper her for it!)—-wholesome food, or food as wholesome as 
a bad season permitted, was provided; and men of respectability, 
bracing their minds to avert the danger that threatened themselves 
by boldly facing it, entered the infected house, where death reigned 
almost alone, and took measures to cleanse and purify the close- 
cribbed air, and the rough bare walls. Before proceeding to our 
story, let us be permitted to mention some general marks of Irish 
virtue, which, under those circumstances, we personally noticed. 
In poverty, in abject misery, and at a short and fearful notice, the 
poor man died like a Christian. He gave vent to none of the 
poor man's complaints or invectives against the rich man who had 


THE STOLEN SHEEP | 193 


neglected him, or who he might have supposed had done so till 
it was too late. Except for a glance—and, doubtless, a little 
inward pang while he glanced—at the starving and perhaps 
infected wife, or child, or old parent as helpless as the child—he 
blessed God and died. The appearance of a comforter at his 
wretched bedside, even when he knew comfort to be useless, made 
his heart grateful and his spasmed lips eloquent in thanks. In 
cases of indescribable misery—-some members of his family lying 
lifeless before his eyes, or else some dying—stretched upon damp 
and unclean straw on an earthen floor, without cordial for his 
lips, or potatoes to point out to a crying infant—often we have 
heard him whisper to himself (and to another who heard him): 
“The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away, blessed be the name 
of the Lord.” Such men need not always make bad neighbors. 

In the early progress of the fever, before the more affuent roused 
themselves to avert its career, let us cross the threshold of an 
individual peasant. His young wife lies dead; his second child is 
dying at her side; he has just sunk into the corner himself, under 
the first stun of disease, long resisted. “The only persons of his 
family who have escaped contagion, and are likely to escape it, are 
his old father, who sits weeping feebly upon the hob, and his first- 
born, a boy of three or four years, who, standing between the old 
man’s knees, cries also for food. 

We visit the young peasant’s abode some time after. He has 
not sunk under “‘the sickness.” He is fast regaining his strength, 
even without proper nourishment; he can creep out-of-doors, and 
sit in the sun. But in the expression of his sallow and emaciated 
face there is no joy for his escape from the grave, as he sits there 
alone silent and brooding. His father and his surviving child 
are still hungry—-more hungry, indeed, and more helpless than 
ever; for the neighbors who had relieved the family with a potato 
and a mug of sour milk are now stricken down themselves, and 
want assistance to a much greater extent than they can give it. 

“T wish Mr. Evans was in the place,” cogitated Michaul Car- 
roll, “‘a body could spake forn’ent him, and not spake for nothin’, 
for all that he’s an Englishman; and I don’t like the thoughts o’ 
goin’ up to the house to the steward’s face; it wouldn’t turn kind 
to a body. May be he’d soon come home to us, the masther him- 
self.” 


194 MICHAEL BANIM—JOHN BANIM 


Another fortnight elapsed. Michaul’s hope proved vain. Mr. 
Evans was still in London; though a regular resident on a small 
Irish estate, since it had come into his possession, business un- 
fortunately——and he would have said so himself—now kept him an 
unusually long time absent. Thus disappointed, Michaul over- 
came his repugnance to appear before the “hard” steward. He 
only asked for work, however. “There was none to be had. He 
turned his slow and still feeble feet into the adjacent town. J+ 
was market-day, and he took up his place among a crowd of 
other claimants for agricultural employment, shouldering a spade, 
as did each of his companions. Many farmers came to the well 
known “‘stannin,” and hired men at his right and at his left, but 
no one addressed Michaul. Once or twice, indeed, touched by his 
sidelong looks of beseeching misery, a farmer stopt a moment 
before him, and glanced over his figure; but his worn and almost 
shaking limbs giving little promise of present vigor in the working 
field, worldly prudence soon conquered the humane feeling which 
started up towards him in the man’s heart, and, with a choking in 
his throat, poor Michaul saw the arbiter of his fate pass on. 

He walked homeward without having broken his fast that day. 
“Bud, musha, what’s the harm o’ that,” he said to himself, ‘only 
here’s the ould father, an’ her pet boy, the weenock!, without a 
pyatee” either. Well, asthore, if they can’t have the pyatees, they 
must have betther food, that’s all; aye—” he muttered, clenching 
his hands at his side, and imprecating fearfully in Irish—“‘an’ so 
they must.” 

He left his house again, and walked a good way to beg a few 
potatoes. He did not come back quite empty-handed. His 
father and his child had a meal. He ate but a few himself, and 
when he was about to lie down in his corner for the night, he said 
to the old man, across the room, “Don’t be a-crying to-night 
father, you and the child there; but sleep well, and ye’ll have the 
good break’ast afore ye in the mornin’,” 

‘The good break’ast, ma bouchal?* a then, an’ where’ll id come 
from?” 

‘‘A body promised it to me, father.” 

“A vich! Michaul, an’ sure it’s fun you’re makin’ of us, now at 


1Child. *Potato. 8My boy. 


THE STOLEN SHEEP 19s 


any rate; but the good-night, a chorra,* an’ my blessin’ on your 
head, Michaul; an’ if we keep trust in the good God, an’ ax his 
blessin’, too, mornin’ an’ evenin’, gettin’ up and lyin’ down, He'll 
be a friend to us at last; that was always an’ ever my word to you, 
poor boy, since you was at the years o’ your weenock, now fast 
asleep at my side; and it’s my word to you now, ma bouchal, an’ 
you won’t forget id; an’ there’s one sayin’ the same to you, out 0’ 
heaven, this night—herself, an’ her little angel in glory by the 
hand, Michaul, a vourneen.’’* 

Having thus spoken in the fervent and rather exaggerated, 
though every-day, words of pious allusion of the Irish poor man, 
old Carroll soon dropped asleep, with his arms round his little 
grandson, both overcome by an unusually abundant meal. In the 
middle of the night he was awakened by a stealthy noise. With- 
out mcving, he cast his eyes round the cabin. A small window, 
through which the moon broke brilliantly, was open. He called 
to his son, but received no answer. He called again and again; 
all remained silent. He arose, and crept to the corner where 
Michaul had lain down. It was empty. He looked out through 
the window into the moonlight. The figure of a man appeared 
at a distance, just about to enter a pasture-field belonging to Mr. 
Evans. 

The old man leaned his back against the wall of the cabin, 
trembling with sudden and terrible misgivings. With him, the 
language of virtue, which we have heard him utter, was not cant. 
In early prosperity, in subsequent misfortunes, and in his late and 
present excess of wretchedness, he had never swerved in practice 
from the spirit of his own exhortations to honesty before men, and 
love for and dependence upon God, which, as he has truly said, 
ne had constantly addressed to his son since his earliest childhood. 
And hitherto that son had indeed walked by his precepts, further 
assisted by a regular observance of the duties of his religion. Was 
he now about to turn into another path? to bring shame on his 
father in his old age? to put a stain on their family and their name? 
“the name that a rogue or a bowld woman rever bore,” continued 
old Carroll, indulging in some of the pride and egotism for which 
an Irish peasant is, under his circumstances, remarkable. And 


‘Term of endearment. 


196 MICHAEL BANIM—JOHN BANIM 


then came the thought of the personal peril incurred by Michaul; 
and his agitation, incurred by the feebleness of age, overpowered 
him. 

He was sitting on the floor, shivering like one in an ague fit, 
when he heard steps outside the house. He listened, and they 
ceased ; but the familiar noise of an old barn-door creaking on its 
crazy hinges came on his ear. It was now day-dawn. He dressed 
himself, stole out cautiously, peeped into the barn through a chink 
of the door, and all he had feared met full confirmation. ‘There, 
indeed, sat Michaul, busily and earnestly engaged, with a frowning 
brow and a haggard face, in quartering the animal he had stolen 
from Mr. Evans’ field. 

The sight sickened the father; the blood on his son’s hands and 
all. He was barely able to keep himself from falling. A fear, 
if not a dislike, of the unhappy culprit also came upon him. His 
unconscious impulse was to re-enter their cabin unperceived, with- 
out speaking a word; he succeeded in doing so; and then he 
fastened the door again, and undressed, and resumed his place 
beside his innocent grandson. 

About an hour afterwards, Michaul came in cautiously through 
the still open window, and also undressed and reclined on his 
straw, after glancing towards his father’s bed, who pretended to 
be asleep. At the usual time for arising, old Carroll saw him sud- 
denly jump up and prepare to go abroad. He spoke to him, lean- 
ing on his elbow: 

“And what hollg is on you’, ma bouchal?”’ 

“Going for the good break’ast I promised you, father dear.” 

“‘An’ who’s the good Christhin’ll give id to us, Michaul ?” 

“Oh, you’ll know that soon, father; now, a good-bye’’—he hur- 
ried to the door. 

“A good-bye, then, Michaul; but tell me, what’s that on your 
hand ?” 

“No=—nothin’,”’ stammered Michaul, changing color, as he 
hastily examined the hand himself; ‘nothin’ is on it; what could 
there be?” (nor was there, for he had very carefully removed all 
evidence of guilt from his person, and the father’s question was 
asked upon grounds distinct from any thing he then saw.) 

“Well, avich, an’ sure I didn’t say any thing was on it wrong, 


3 





ew 


’What are you about? 


THE STOLEN SHEEP 197 


or any thing to make you look so quare, an’ spake so sthrange to 
your father, this mornin’; only I'll ax you, Michaul, over again, 
who has took such a sudd’n likin’ to us, to send us the good break- 
’ast ? an’ answer me sthraight, Michaul, what is id to be that you 
call it so good?” 

“The good mate, father’—he was again passing the threshold. 

“Stop!” cried his father, “stop, an’ turn fornent me. Mate ?— 
the good mate? What ud bring mate into our poor house, Mich- 
aul? ‘Tell me, I bid you again an’ again, who is to give id to 
you?” 

“Why, as I said afore, father, a body that a 

“A body that thieved id, Michaul Carroll!” added the old man, 
as his son hesitated, walking close up to the culprit; ‘‘a body that 
thieved id, an’ no other body. Don’t think to blind me, Michaul. 
I am ould, to be sure, but sense enough is left in me to look round 
among the neighbors, in my own mind, an’ know that none of ’em 
that has the will has the power to send us the mate for our break- 
‘ast in an honest way. An’ I don’t say outright that you had the 
same thought wid me when you consented to take it from a thief; 
I don’t mean to say that you’d go to turn a thief’s recaiver at this 
hour o’ your life, an’ afther growin’ up from a boy to a man with- 
out bringin’ a spot o’ shame on yourself, or on your weenock, or on 
one of us. No, I won’t say that. Your heart was scalded, 
Michaul, an’ your mind was darkened, for a start; an’ the thought 
o’ gettin’ comfort for the ould father, an’ for the little son, made 
you consent in a hurry, widout lookin’ well afore you, or widout 
lookin’ up to your good God.” 

“Father, father, let me alone! don’t spake them words to me,” 
interrupted Michaul, sitting on a stool, and spreading his large 
and hard hands over his face. 

“Well, thin, an’ I won't, avich; I won’t; nothing to trouble you, 
sure; I didn’t mean it—only this, a vourneen, don’t bring a mouth- 
ful o’ the bad, unlucky victuals into this cabin; the payatees, the 
wild berries 0’ the bush, the wild roots o’ the earth will be sweeter 
to us, Michaul; the hunger itself will be sweeter; an’ when we 
give God thanks afther our poor meal, or afther no meal at all, 
our hearts will be lighter and our hopes for to-morrow sthronger, 
avich, ma chree, than if we faisted on the fat o’ the land, but 
couldn’t ax a blessing on our faist.” 





198 MICHAEL BANIM—JOHN BANIM 


“Well, thin, I won’t either, father—I won’t; an’ sure you have 
your way now. I’ll only go out a little while from you to beg, 
or else, as you say, to root down in the ground, with my nails like 
a baste brute, for our break’ast.” 

“My vourneen you are, Michaul, an’ my blessin’ on your head; 
yes, to be sure, avich, beg, an’ I'll beg wid you; sorrow a shame is 
in that—no, but a good deed, Michaul, when it’s done to keep us 
honest. So come, we'll go among the Christhins together; only, 
before we go, Michaul, my own dear son, tell me—tell one thing.” 

“What, father?’ Michaul began to suspect. 

_ “Never be afraid to tell me, Michaul Carroll, ma bouchal, I 
won't—I can’t be angry wid you now. You are sorry, an’ your 
Father in heaven forgives you, and so do I. But you know, avich, 
there would be danger in quittin’ the place widout hidin’ every 
scrap of any thing that could tell on us.” 

“Tell on us! what can tell on us?” demanded Michaul; ‘“‘what’s 
in the place to tell on us?” 

“Nothin’ in the cabin, I know, Michaul; but ¥ 

“But what, father?” 

“Have you left nothin’ in the way out there?’ whispered the old 
man, pointing towards the barn. 

“Out there? Where? What? What do you mean at all, 
now, father? Sure you know it’s your own self has kept me from 
as much as laying a hand on it.” 

“Ay, to-day mornin’; bud you laid a hand on ‘it last night, avich, 
an’ so ie 

“Curp an duoul!”’ imprecated Michaul, “this is too bad at any 
rate, no, I didn’t—last night—let me alone, I bid you, father.” 

“Come back again, Michaul,’” commanded old Carroll, as the 
son once more hurried to the door, and his words were instantly 
obeyed. 

Michaul, after a glance abroad, and a start, which the old man 
did not notice, paced to the middle of the floor, hanging his head, 
and saying in a low voice: ‘“‘Hushth, now, father—it’s time.” 

“No, Michaul, I will not hushth, an’ it’s not time; come out 
with me to the barn.” 

“Hushth!” repeated Michaul, whispering sharply; he had 
glanced sideways to the square patch of strong morning sunlight 
on the ground of the cabin, defined there by the shape of the open 








THE STOLEN SHEEP 199 


door, and saw it intruded upon the shadow of a man’s bust leaning 
forward in an earnest posture. 

“Ts it in your mind to go back into your sin, Michaul, an’ tell me 
you were not in the barn at daybreak the mornin’?” asked the 
father, still unconscious of a reason for silence. 

“Arrah, hushth, old man!’ Michaul made a hasty sign towards 
the door, but was disregarded. 

“I saw you in id,” pursued old Carroll, sternly, “ay, and at your 
work in id too.” 

“What’s that you’re sayin’, ould Peery Carroll?’ demanded a 
well-known voice. 

“Enough to hang his son!’’ whispered Michaul to his father, as 
Mr. Evans’ land steward, followed by his herdsman and two 
policemen, entered the cabin. In a few minutes afterwards the 
policemen had in charge the dismembered carcass of the sheep, dug 
up out of the floor of the barn, and were escorting Michaul, hand- 
cuffed, to the county gaol, in the vicinity of the next town. They 
could find no trace of the animal’s skin, though they sought at- 
tentively for it; this seemed to disappoint them and the steward a 
good deal. 

From the moment that they entered the cabin, till their depart- 
ure, old Carroll did not speak a word. Without knowing it, as it 
seemed, he sat down on his straw bed, and remained staring stup- 
idly around him, or at one or another of his visitors. When 
Michaul was about to leave his wretched abode, he paced quickly 
towards his father, and holding out his ironed hands, and turning 
his cheek for a kiss, said, smiling miserably: ‘“God be wid you, 
father, dear.”’ Still the old man was silent, and the prisoner 
and all his attendants passed out on the road. But it was then 
the agony of old Carroll assumed a distinctness. Uttering a 
fearful cry, he snatched up his still sleeping grandson, ran with 
the boy in his arms till he overtook Michaul; and, kneeling down 
before him in the dust, said: “I ax pardon o’ you, avich; won't 
you tell me I have id afore you go? an’ here, I’ve brought little 
Peery for you to kiss; you forgot him, a vourneen.” 

“No, father, I didn’t,” answered Michaul, as he stooped to 
kiss the child; ‘‘an’ get up, father, get up; my hands are not my 
own, or I wouldn’t let you do that afore your son. Get up, 
there’s nothin’ for you to throuble yourself about; that is, 1 mean, 


200 MICHAEL BANIM—JOHN BANIM 


I have nothin’ to forgive you; no, but every thing to be thankful 
for, an’ to love you for; you were always an’ ever the good father 
to me; an’—’’ ‘The many strong and bitter feelings, which till] 
now he had almost perfectly kept in, found full vent, and poor 
Michaul could not go on. The parting from his father, however, 
so different from what it had promised to be, comforted him. 
The old man held him in his arms, and wept on his neck. They 
were separated with difficulty. 

Peery Carroll, sitting on the roadside after he lost sight of the 
prisoner, and holding his screaming grandson on his knees, thought 
the cup of his trials was full. By his imprudence he had fixed the 
proof of guilt on his own child; that reflection was enough for 
him, and he could indulge in it only generally. But he was yet 
to conceive distinctly in what dilemma he had involved himself, 
as well as Michaul. The policemen came back to compel his 
appearance before the magistrate; then, when the little child had 
been disposed of in a neighboring cabin, he understood, to his 
consternation and horror, that he was to be the chief witness 
against the sheep stealer. Mr. Evans’ steward knew well the 
meaning of the words he had overheard him say in the cabin, and 
that if compelled to swear all he was aware of, no doubt would 
exist of the criminality of Michaul, in the eyes of a jury. “Tis 
a sthrange thing to ax a father to do,” muttered Peery, more than 
once, as he proceeded to the magistrate’s, “it’s a very sthrange 
thing.” 

‘The magistrate proved to be a humane man. Notwithstanding 
the zeal of the steward and the policemen, he committed Michaul 
for trial, without continuing to press the hesitating and bewildered 
old Peery into any detailed evidence; his nature seemed to rise 
against the task, and he said to the steward: “I have enough of the 
facts for making out a committal; if you think the father will be 
necessary on the trial, subpoena him.” 

The steward objected that Peery would abscond, and demanded 
to have him bound over to prosecute, on two sureties, solvent and 
respectable. [he magistrate assented; Peery could name no bail; 
and consequently he also was marched to prison, though pro- 
hibited from holding the least intercourse with Michaul. 

The assizes soon came on. Miichaul was arraigned; and, dur- 
ing his plea of “not guilty” his father appeared, unseen by him, in 


THE STOLEN SHEEP 201 


the gaoler’s custody, at the back of the dock, or rather in an inner 
dock. ‘The trial excited a keen and painful interest in the court, 
the bar, the jury box, and the crowds of spectators. It was uni- 
versally known that a son had stolen a sheep, partly to feed a 
starving father; and that out of the mouth of that father it was 
now sought to condemn him. ‘What will the old man do?” was 
the general question which ran through the assembly; and while 
few of the lower orders could contemplate the possibility of his 
swearing to the truth, many of their betters scarcely hesitated to 
make out for him a case of natural necessity to swear falsely. 

The trial began. ‘The first witness, the herdsman, proved the 
loss of the sheep, and the finding of the dismembered carcass in the 
old barn. “The policemen and the steward followed to the same 
effect, and the latter added the allusions which he had heard the 
father make to the son, upon the morning of the arrest of the 
latter. The steward went down from the table. There was a 
pause, and complete silence, which the attorney for the prosecu- 
tion broke by saying to the crier: ‘Call Peery Carroll.” 

“Here, sir,” immediately answered Peery, as the gaoler led him, 
by a side door, out of the back dock to the table. The prisoner 
started round; but the new witness against him had passed for an 
instant into the crowd. 

The next instant, old Peery was seen ascending the table, 
assisted by the gaoler and by many other commiserating hands, 
near him. Every glance fixed upon his face. ‘The barristers 
looked wistfully up from their seats round the table; the judge 
put a glass to his eye, and seemed to study his features attentively. 
Among the audience there ran a low but expressive murmur of 
pity and interest. 

Though much emaciated by confinement, anguish, and suspense, 
Peery’s cheeks had a flush, and his weak blue eyes glittered. The 
half-gaping expression of his parched and haggard lips was mis- 
erable to see. And yet he did not tremble much, nor appear so 
confounded as upon the day of his visit to the magistrate. 

The moment he stood upright on the table, he turned himself 
fully to the judge, without a glance towards the dock. ‘“‘Sit down, 
sit down, poor man,” said the judge. 

“Thanks to you, my lord, I will,” answered Peery, “only, first, 
I’d ax you to let me kneel, for a little start’; and he accordingly 


202 MICHAEL BANIM—JOHN BANIM 


did kneel, and after bowing his head, and forming the sign of the 
cross on his forehead, he looked up, and said: “My Judge in 
heaven above, ’tis you I pray to keep me to my duty, afore my 
earthly judge, this day—-amen”; and then, repeating the sign of 
the cross, he seated himself. 

The examination of the witness commenced, and humanely pro- 
ceeded as follows——(the counsel for the prosecution taking no 
notice of the superfluity of Peery’s answers)— “Do you know 
Michaul, or Michael, Carroll, the prisoner at the bar ?” 

“Afore that night, sir, I believed I knew him well; every 
thought of his mind; every bit of the heart in his body; afore that 
night, no living creature could throw a word at Michaul Carroll, 
or say he ever forgot his father’s renown, or his love of his good 
God; an’ sure the people are afther telling you, by this time, how 
it come about that night; an’ you, my lord—an’ ye, gintlemen— 
an’ all good Christians that hear me; here I am to help to hang 
him—my own boy, and my only one—but for all that, gintlemen, 
ye ought to think of it; ’t was for the weenock and the ould father 
that he done it; indeed, an’ deed, we hadn’t a pyatee in the place, 
an’ the sickness was among us, a start afore; it took the wife from 
him, an’ another babby; an’ id had himself down, a week or so 
beforehand; an’ all that day he was looking for work, but couldn’t 
get a hand’s turn to do; an’ that’s the way it was; not a mouthful 
for me an’ little Peery an’ more betoken, he grew sorry for id, in 
the mornin’, an’ promised me not to touch a scrap of what was 
in the barn—ay, long afore the steward and the peelers came on 
us—but was willin’ to go among the neighbors an’ beg our break- 
"ast, along wid myself, from door to door, sooner than touch it.” 

“Tt is my painful duty,” resumed the barrister, when Peery 
would at length cease, “to ask you for closer information. You 
saw Michaul Carroll in the barn, that night?” 

“Musha—the Lord pity him and me—lI did, sir.” 

“Doing what?” 

“The sheep between his hands,’ answered Peery, dropping his 
head, and speaking almost inaudibly. 

“T must still give you pain, I fear; stand up, take the crier’s 
rod, and if you see Michael Carroll in court, lay it on his head.” 

“Och, musha, musha, sir, don’t ax me to do that!’ pleaded 
Peery, rising, wringing his hands, and for the first time weeping, 


THE STOLEN SHEEP 203 


“Och, don’t, my lord, don’t and may your own judgment be fay- 
orable the last day.” 

“I am sorry to command you to do it, witness, but you must take 
the rod,” answered the judge, bending his head close to his notes, to 
hide his own tears, and, at the same time, many a veteran barrister 
rested his forehead on the edge of the table. In the body of the 
court were heard sobs. 

“Michaul, avich! Michaul, a chorra ma chree!’’ exclaimed 
Peery, when at length he took the rod, and faced round to his son, 
“is id your father they make to do it, ma bouchal?” 

“My father does what is right,” answered Michaul, in Irish. 
The judge immediately asked to have his words translated; and, 
when he learned their import, regarded the prisoner with satis- 
faction. 

“We rest here, my lord,” said the counsel, with the air of a man 
freed from a painful task. 

The judge instantly turned to the jury box. 

“Gentlemen of the jury. “That the prisoner at the bar stole 
the sheep in question, there can be no shade of moral doubt. But 
you have a very peculiar case to consider. A son steals a sheep 
that his own famishing father and his own famishing son may have 
food. His aged parent is compelled to give evidence against him 
here for the act. The old man virtuously tells the truth, and the 
whole truth, before you and me. He sacrifices his natural feel- 
ings—and we have seen that they are lively—to his honesty, and to 
his religious sense of the sacred obligations of an oath. Gentle- 
men, I will pause to observe that the old man’s conduct is strik- 
ingly exemplary, and even noble. It teaches all of us a lesson. 
Gentlemen, it is not within the province of a judge to censure the 
rigor of the proceedings which have sent him before us. But I 
venture to anticipate your pleasure that, notwithstanding all the 
evidence given, you will be able to acquit the old man’s son, the 
prisoner at the bar. I have said there cannot be the shade of a 
moral doubt that he has stolen the sheep, and I repeat the words. 
But, gentlemen, there is a legal doubt, to the full benefit of which 
he is entitled. The sheep has not been identified. “The herdsman 
could not venture to identify it (and it would have been strange 
if he could) from the dismembered limbs found in the barn. To 
his mark on its skin, indeed, he might have positively spoken; but 


204 KENELM HENRY DIGBY 


no skin was discovered. ‘Therefore, according to the evidence, 
and you have sworn to decide by that alone, the prisoner is en- 
titled to your acquittal. Possibly now that the prosecutor sees 
the case in its full bearing, he may be pleased with this result.” 

While the jury, in evident satisfaction, prepared to return their 
verdict, Mr. Evans, who had but a moment before returned home, 
entered the court, and becoming aware of the concluding words 
of the judge, expressed his sorrow aloud, that the prosecution had 
ever been undertaken; that circumstances had kept him unin- 
formed of it, though it had gone on in his name; and he begged 
leave to assure his lordship that it would be his future effort to 
keep Michaul Carroll in his former path of honesty, by finding him 
honest and ample employment, and, as far as in him lay, to reward 
the virtue of the old father. 

While Peery Carroll was laughing and crying in a breath, in 
the arms of his delivered son, a subscription, commenced by the 
bar, was mounting into a considerable sum for his advantage. 





KENELM HENRY DIGBY 
1797—=1880 


Kenelm Digby, convert, historian, and miscellaneous writer, was 
born in Ireland in 1797. He studied at Trinity College, Cambridge, 
graduating in 1819. At an early stage of his Cambridge residence he 
became interested in scholasticism and medizevalism and through 
them gradually turned toward the Catholic Church; hence, not long 
after the publication of the first part of his Broad Stone of Honour, 
in 1822, he was received into the Faith. 

His second book, therefore, Mores Catholici, was written directly 
under the influence of his, now, crystallized belief. Numerous 
others of his works appeared from time to time, in both prose and 
verse, but nothing among them equalled in importance the two earlier 
books. 

Digby is now, for the most part, forgotten, and yet without his 
work the literature would be the poorer. No one before him or since 
has managed to pack into his writing such immense erudition as has 
he. His books must stand as storehouses, to be consulted by anyone 
who touches upon the subjects of: first, “the origin, spirit, and insti- 
tution of Christian chivalry”; and second, “the ages of faith.” 


THE BROAD STONE OF HONOUR 2065 


From THE BROAD STONE OF HONOUR 


HE brilliant amusements of chivalry have been made 
so familiar to this age by various admirable writers, 
that I shall endeavour rather to shew the spirit which 
in general directed them, than to imitate descriptions which are 
so easily found in the pages of Ste. Palaye, Busching, La Colom- 
biere and Scott. The Homeric games resembled the tournaments 
of later chivalry ; men of a certain rank only engaged in them, but 
a concourse of all orders attended as spectators. Sylla held a 
tournament of boys, or the game of Troy, said to have been in- 
vented by Ascanius, of which there is a description in Virgil. 
The French seem to have been the first to have instituted the regu- 
lar tournament, and Geoffroi de Preuilli, who died in 1066, is 
considered as having first established the laws which were ob- 
served respecting them. René d’Anjou, Comte de Provence, and 
King of Naples, painted with his own hand various representations 
of these games, and described the rules which were to guide those 
who engaged in them. It was in the reign of Henry the Fowler 
that tournaments were first held in Germany. ‘The emperor sent 
commissioners to England, to make a report of the tournaments 
there. It was King Stephen, in the first half of the twelfth cen- 
tury, who first introduced tournaments in England; then the 
Italians adopted them; and, after the crusades, the Greek emper- 
ors held them at Constantinople, and the Comneni distinguished 
themselves by their address. The clergy, however, lamented the 
prevalence of these dangerous diversions. “The author of the Life 
of St. Bernard says, on one occasion, ““A large company of noble 
warriors came to Clairvaux when the time of Lent was near be- 
ginning; they were almost all youths devoted to secular warfare, 
seeking those execrable vanities, which are commonly called 
tournaments.” When the young Bayard addressed his cousin, 
the Abbot of Ainay, whom he met in the meadow near the Rhone, 
and requested that he would give him a little money to supply 
his expense for his first tournament—=“On my faith,” replied the 
good man, who loved him as a son, “you must seek elsewhere for 
some one to assist you in this affair; the goods of this abbey have 
been destined by its pious founders for the service of God, and 
not to be dissipated in jousts and tournaments.’ 
The number of deaths at tournaments was very great. At 


206 KENELM HENRY DIGBY 


Cologne, on one occasion, the lists resembled a field of battle; 
moreover, it was said that they prevented the nobles from assisting 
Europe against the Turks in the East. On these accounts the 
church prohibited them, and at length ecclesiastical burial was 
refused to all who fell in tournaments. ‘The hatred of the clergy 
against them may be instanced in the monk of St. Denis, who, 
describing the hanging of a certain proud knight, says that the 
executioner cried, ‘‘Laissez aller’; the expression of the heralds, to 
signify the commencement of these games. A scene from the 
chivalry of Spain must be sufficient for this place. During the 
rejoicings which took place in the city of Granada, on the 
coronation of the Moorish king Boabdil, Don Rodrigo Téllez 
Giron, master of the order of Calatrava, scouring the Vega with 
a body of horse, desired to know whether there were any knights 
in Granada who would venture to meet him, hand to hand; so 
he sent his squire with the following letter to the king:—“‘llus- 
trious Sire, may your Majesty enjoy the new crown your virtue 
has acquired, as long as your heart can wish! For my part I 
rejoice, though our faith is different; but I trust, ere long, that the 
Almighty will open your Majesty’s eyes, and bring you and your 
house to the knowledge of his blessed Son Jesus, and to the friend- 
ship of the Christians. Hearing that there are fétes, in honour 
of your coronation, it seems to be just that the knights of your 
court should try their valour in tilts and tournaments with the 
troops under my command. I have been scouring the Vega; and 
if there be any knight in Granada willing to meet me, hand to 
hand, with your Majesty’s consent, I shall expect him on the 
morrow beneath the large oak, near the city, giving you my word 
of honour, that none of my people shall advance but myself, or an 
equal number only to those who may sally from Granada. The 
Master, Rodrigo Téllez Giron.” 

The king, having read the letter, looked round the court, and 
found every one equally disposed to accept the challenge. It was 
determined that twelve knights should be chosen, and each day 
one was to leave the city. The queen drew the lots, and it fell 
to Muza to be the first combatant. The king immediately sent 
an answer to the master, informing him of the event, and saying 


that the ladies of the court would view the battle from the towers 
of the Alhambra. 


THE BROAD STONE OF HONOUR 207 


‘The next morning the grand master, after taking every precau- 
tion lest the Moors should break the truce, galloped forward to 
meet Muza. Meanwhile the expected combat had thrown the 
ladies of the court into great agitation; but the lovely Fatima, 
who secretly loved Muza, was more grieved than the rest, knowing 
Don Rodrigo’s fame. During the night, as Muza was preparing 
for the combat, she sent him, by a page, a green and purple banner 
for his lance, embroidered with gold, which Muza received with 
good grace, although he paid his court to Daraxa, from whom he 
would rather have received it. “The morning had scarce dawned, 
when Muza, completely armed, went to the king, who immedi- 
ately arose, and ordered the trumpets to sound, whereupon a vast 
concourse of knights assembled. “The king dressed himself very 
magnificently, in a garment of gold brocade, covered with pearls 
and precious stones, and he left the city just as the rays of the sun 
began to gild the towers of Granada. Muza rode by his side with 
two hundred cavaliers, and as they approached the master and his 
fifty attendants, the trumpets sounded. Muza rode forward, and 
the master advanced to meet him. ‘The master wore a vest of 
blue velvet over his armour, embroidered with gold; his shield 
bore a red cross; a second cross he also wore upon his breast; his 
horse was a beautiful dapple gray. His lance was adorned with 
a banneret, and a cross upon it, with the motto, “For this and for 
my king.’’ His whole air was so noble, that the king remarked, 
it was not without reason he enjoyed such glorious fame. The 
two knights, after a short but courteous salutation, retired to a 
short distance. “The queen and the ladies had ascended the towers 
of the Alhambra to view the combat. The king ordered the 
clarionets to sound, and immediately the knights rushed upon each 
other with great fury, but neither was unhorsed. They continued 
skirmishing for some time, making frequent evolutions with their 
steeds. "The master being badly mounted, flung his lance, and 
wounded by accident the horse of his opponent. Muza leaped 
from his back, and advanced to meet Don Rodrigo, who was 
leaping from his horse, drew his sword, and flew to meet Muza. 
The knights now fought on foot, and gave each other many dread- 
ful blows, and at length the master clove away the crest from 
Muza’s helmet, who was stunned, but soon recovering, raised his 
sabre, and with a dreadful stroke wounded the master on the 


208 KENELM HENRY DIGBY 


arm, who repaid him with a back stroke on the thigh. Fatima 
perceiving the wound of Muza, could no longer endure this cruel 
spectacle, but fell back on the ground, and was borne away. ‘The 
combat was now very fierce, but the master had evidently the ad- 
vantage, and Muza grew weaker and weaker every moment; 
which Don Rodrigo observing, wished to see him converted, and 
therefore resolved not to continue the battle any longer. Retir- 
ing, therefore, a few steps backward, he addressed him in the 
gentlest manner. “‘Noble Muza, it strikes me that combats so 
bloody little coincide with the hour of rejoicing, let us therefore, 
if you please, desist. You are so worthy a knight, that I cannot 
help soliciting your friendship, rather than the continuance of the 
combat.’ Muza replied, “Most evidently do I perceive, illustri- 
ous master, that your motive for desiring thus amicably to end the 
conflict, is because my wounds have thrown me into such a situa- 
tion, that death alone can ensue from prosecuting it, and that you 
would fain grant me life. I certainly acknowledge it a great 
favour, nevertheless I am ready to continue the fight till death; 
but if, as you are kindly pleased to say, you indeed covet my friend- 
ship, with my whole heart I thank you.” Both knights returned 
their swords to the scabbard, and then parted with lasting senti- 
ments of esteem for each other. 

The bull-fights were another exercise of courage and activity, 
which was most ardently pursued by the chivalry of Spain. ‘The 
church, however, expressly condemned them as wicked and in- 
human. Pope Pius V prohibited them on pain of excommunica- 
tion; but Gregory XIII was induced to withdraw this sentence, 
provided they were not held on festival days; but all in orders 
were forbidden to be present at any time. Still the clergy strained 
every nerve to counteract this cruel passion, by extending indul- 
gences to all who frequented the churches during the time of a 
combat. Not that the clergy were ever opposed to harmless 
recreations and useful exercise. Muratori relates that the holy 
fathers of the Company of Jesus used to sanction certain tourna- 
ments among their innocent and happy Indians, as a recreation and 
trial of skill. 

It is important to remark the spirit with which even the most 
objectionable of these recreations were pursued. [he Egyptians 
told the Elian ambassador, that the custom of allowing Elian and 


THE BROAD STONE OF HONOUR 209 


foreign knights to engage in their games was most unjust; for 
that it was not possible that fair play should be the result, or that 
the strangers could meet with justice contending with Elians. 
How astonishing and disgraceful would such suspicions have ap- 
peared ta our Christian chivalry, when men invited their bitterest 
enemies to enter the lists with them during the intervals of a 
truce? 

Xerxes having asked what was the reward of the victor in the 
Olympic games, was told that it was a crown of olive. ‘Tritan- 
taechmes, the son of Artabanus, when he heard that it was an olive 
wreath, and not money, expressed his astonishment before the 
assembled host. Yet Pausanias relates how often the combatants 
in the Olympic games were bribed to suffer themselves to be van- 
quished, and that the fines paid by similar offenders had been 
sufficient to erect several statues: but the tournaments of chivalry 
were never made the instrument of a sordid passion. It is a great 
error to compare these brilliant games, which could furnish em- 
ployment to the noblest artists, and a subject even for the muse, 
with the ferocious combats of greedy barbarians. What was the 
prize which excited those who engaged in the exercises of chivalry? 
Let us hear Froissart. ‘After dyner knyghtes and squyers were 
armed to just, and so they justed in the markette place, xi knyghtes 
of the one side; the yonge Kyng Charles justed with a knyght of 
Heynalt, called Sir Nycholas Espinoy; so these justes were nobly 
contynued, and a yonge knyght of Heynalt had the prise—this 
knyght justed greatly to the pleasure of the lordes and ladyes: 
he had for his prise, a gyrdell gyven by the Duchesse of Bourgoyne, 
from her own wast.” ‘The savage spectacles which pretend to no 
grace or refinement, but merely to exhibit the ferocity and cun- 
ning of a brute nature, may have attractions when a taste for blood 
has once entered into the heart. It was thus that St. Augustin 
describes Alipius, who beheld the combat of the circus against 
his will, but who could not afterwards turn away his eyes from 
it; having in a manner drunk blood and becoming intoxicated with 
the sanguinary pleasure. Such sports may indeed be traced to the 
amusement of the suitors of Penelope, when Antinous excited the 
two beggars to a pugilistic combat, proposing a prize for the con- 
queror, and exulting in the sight of blood; or to the shooting of 
the devoted dove over the grave of Patroclus, or to the gladiatorial 


210 JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 


scenes, where the persons engaged were so despised, that when 
Cicero had exhausted all the terms of reproach, he concludes by 
calling Catiline a gladiator; but no shadow of likeness do they 
offer to the gay and generous contests which assembled the chiv- 
alry of Europe, in the courts of Windsor, or under the towers of 
the Alhambra. It is not strange that there were men who regret- 
ted the old amusements of the nobility, when they beheld it 
ruined by the extravagant expense of the carousals, or corrupted 
and debased by the introduction of games which were made the 
instruments of avarice, or the pretences for effeminate inactivity. 


JOHN HENRY NEWMAN' 


1801—-1890 


John Henry Newman, convert, cardinal, one of the great English 
stylists, and one of the greatest religious thinkers, was born in Lon- 
don in 1801. His early education was obtained at Ealing. Subse- 
quently he attended Trinity College, Oxford, taking his B. A. in 1820. 

In 1824 he took orders in the Anglican Church and for a time 
settled into the routine of an Anglican clergyman. Possessed, how- 
ever, of a degree of intellectual curiosity far beyond that vouchsafed 
to most men, he began researches into the early history of the Apos- 
tolic Church. These studies led to the publication of his History of 
the Arians, in 1832. With them also began his leaning toward the 
Catholic Church, a trend of thought which deepened during a trip 
abroad in search of health. It was at this time that he composed 
most of his verse, including the famous Pillar of the Cloud, which in 
no slight manner denotes the state of his mind. 

Shortly after his return in 1833, he plunged into the Oxford Mote 
ment, which had been started by John Keble’s sermon on the Na- 
tional Apostasy. ‘This movement was developed by a series of ninety 
tracts, called Tracts for the Times, in which Newman endeavored 
to stress the Catholic beliefs held by the Anglican Church and to 
show that these beliefs were representative of the early Christianity. 
In the course of the work, moreover, Newman became aware of the 
fact that Anglicism was a schism; but he also discovered that no 
matter what he might say he was helpless to convince the great bulk 
of Anglicans. Hence, he published his famous Tract go, in 1841, and 
the character of his position was established beyond doubt. Four 


Selections from the work of Cardinal Newman are reprinted by the 
permission of Longmans, Green and Company, the authorized publishers. 


VALENTINE TO A LITTLE GIRL ari 


years later, during which time he was watched with something like 
fear because of the dominant position his force of mind and his 
powers of oratory had obtained for him, he was received into the 
Catholic Church and in the following year was ordained priest. 

In 1850 he founded the Brompton Oratory, London, of which 
Father Faber became Rector. ‘Then, the idea of a Catholic Univer- 
sity to be erected in Dublin was no sooner conceived than Newman 
was selected as Rector. In 1854, therefore, he journeyed to Ireland 
to assume his new duties. The university did not become an accom- 
plished fact, but the inception of the idea concerning it resulted in 
the Idea for a University, a work which is not only one of the finest 
pieces of prose in the language, but is also the classic interpretation of 
what is meant by a liberal education. 

During the years that followed, Newman’s career was one of dis- 
appointment; he was feared and disliked by the majority of English- 
men because of what he had wanted to do to the Established Church, 
and he was misunderstood by his own churchmen. In 1864 Charles 
Kingsley, the novelist, attacked him on the strength of a more or less 
conscious misinterpretation of one of his published statements. The 
result of the attack was the Apologia Pro Vita Sua in which Newman 
set forth an account of the development of his religious opinions, a 
work which, perhaps as much as any other single effort, has con- 
tributed toward the present position of the Catholic Church in Eng- 
lish-speaking countries. Not only was Newman accorded something 
little less than a popular acclaim following it, but he was also held 
justified by his ecclesiastical superiors, so that in 1877 he was made 
Honorary Fellow of Trinity College, Oxford; and in 1879 he was 
created Cardinal by Pope Leo XIII. 


VALENTINE TO) A “LITTLE GIRL 


LiItTLE maiden, dost thou pine 

For a faithful Valentine? 

Art thou scanning timidly 

Every face that meets thine eye? 

Art thou fancying there may be 5 
Fairer face than thou dost see? 

Little maiden, scholar mine, 

Wouldst thou have a Valentine? 


Go and ask, my little child, 

Ask the Mother undefiled: 10 
Ask, for she will draw thee near, 

And will whisper in thine ear :— 


212 


JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 


“Valentine! the name is good; 
For it comes of lineage high, 
And a famous family: 

And it tells of gentle blood, 
Noble blood,—and nobler still, 
For its owner freely pour’d 

Every drop there was to spill 
In the quarrel of his Lord. 

Valentine! I know the name, 

Many martyrs bear the same; 

And they stand in glittering ring 


Round their warrior God and King— 


Who before and for them bled, — 
With their robes of ruby red, 


And their swords of cherub flame.” 


Yes! there is a plenty there, 
Knights without reproach or fear,— 
Such St. Denys, such St. George, 
Martin, Maurice, Theodore, 
And a hundred thousand more; 
Guerdon gain’d and warfare o’er, 
By that sea without a surge, 
And beneath the eternal sky, 
And the beatific Sun, 
In Jerusalem above, 
Valentine is every one; 
Choose from out that company 


Whom to serve, and whom to love. 


MY LADY NATURE AND HER DAUGHTERS 


Lapis, well I deem, delight 
In comely tire to move; 
Soft, and delicate, and bright, 
Are the robes they love. 
Silks, where hues alternate play, 
Shawls, and scarfs, and mantles gay, 


15 


20 


25 


30 


ate 


MY LADY NATURE AND HER DAUGHTERS 213 


Gold, and gems, and crispéd hair, 

Fling their light o’er lady fair. 

”T is not waste, nor sinful pride,— 

Name them not, nor fault beside,— 10 
But her very cheerfulness 

Prompts and weaves the curious dress 

While her holy thoughts still roam 

’Mid birth-friends and scenes of home. 

Pleased to please whose praise is dear, 15 
Glitters she? she glitters there ;— 

And she has a pattern found her 

In Nature’s glowing world around her. 


Nature loves, as lady bright, 
In gayest guise to shine, 20 
All forms of grace, all tints of light, 
Fringe her robe divine. 
Sun-lit heaven, and rain-bow cloud, 
Changeful main, and mountain proud, 
Branching tree, and meadow green, 25 
All are deck’d in broider’d sheen. 
Not a bird on bough-propp’d tower, 
Insect slim, nor tiny flower, 
Stone, nor spar, nor shell of sea, 
But is fair in its degree. 30 
T is not pride, this vaunt of beauty; 
Well she quits her trust of duty; 
And, amid her gorgeous state, 
Bright, and bland, and delicate, 
Ever beaming from her face 35 
Praise of a Father’s love we trace. 


Ladies, shrinking from the view 
Of the prying day, 
In tranquil diligence pursue 
Their heaven-appointed way. 40 
Noiseless duties, silent cares, 
Mercies lighting unawares, 


214 


JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 


Modest influence working good, 
Gifts, by the keen heart understood, 
Such as viewless spirits might give, 
‘These they love, in these they live.-— 
Mighty Nature speeds her through 
Her daily toils in silence too: 

Calmly rolls her giant spheres, 
Sheds by stealth her dew’s kind tears; 
Cheating sage’s vex’d pursuit, 

Churns the sap, matures the fruit, 
And, her deft hand still congealing, 
Kindles motion, life, and feeling. 


Ladies love to laugh and sing, 

To rouse the chord’s full sound, 
Or to join the festive ring 

Where dancers gather round. 
Not a sight so fair on earth, 
As a lady’s graceful mirth; 
Not a sound so chasing pain, 
As a lady’s thrilling strain. 
Nor is Nature left behind 
In her lighter moods of mind; 
Calm her duties to fulfl, 
In her glee a prattler still. 
Bird and beast of every sort 
Hath its antic and its sport; 
Chattering brook, and dancing gnat, 
Subtle cry of evening bat, 
Moss uncouth, and twigs grotesque, 
‘These are Nature’s picturesque. 


Where the birth of Poesy? 
Its fancy and its fire? 

Nature’s earth, and sea, and sky, 
Fervid thoughts inspire. 

Where do wealth and power find rest, 


When hopes have fail’d, or toil oppress’d? 


45 


50 


2 


60 


65 


70 


75 


HUMILIATION 


Parks, and lawns, and deer, and trees, 
Nature’s work, restore them ease.— 
Rare the rich, the gifted rare,— 
Where shall work-day souls repair, 
Unennobled, unrefined, 

From the rude world and unkind? 
Who shall friend their lowly lot? 
High-born Nature answers not. 
Leave her in her starry dome, 

Seek we lady-lighted home. 

Nature ’mid the spheres bears sway, 
Ladies rule where hearts obey. 


SENSITIVENESS 


TIME was, I shrank from what was right 
From fear of what was wrong; 

I would not brave the sacred fight, 
Because the foe was strong. 


But now I cast that finer sense 
And sorer shame aside; 

Such dread of sin was indolence, 
Such aim at Heaven was pride. 


So, when my Saviour calls, I rise, 
And calmly do my best ; 

Leaving to Him, with silent eyes 
Of hope and fear, the rest. 


I step, I mount where He has led, 
Men count my haltings o’er,— 

I know them; yet though self I dread, 
I love His precept more. 


HUMILIATION 


I HAVE been honor’d and obey’d, 
I have met scorn and slight; 

And my heart loves earth’s sober shade, 
More than her laughing light. 


215 


80 


85 


go 


10 


15 


216 


JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 


For what is rule but a sad weight 
Of duty and a snare? 

What meanness, but with happier fate 
The Saviour’s Cross to share? 


This my hid choice, if not from heaven, 
Moves on the heavenward line; 

Cleanse it, good Lord, from earthly leaven, 
And make it simply Thine. 


THE QUEEN OF SEASONS 


ALL is divine 
which the Highest has made, 
‘Through the days that He wrought, 
till the day when He stay’d; 
Above and below, 
within and around, 
From the center of space, 
to its uttermost bound. 


In beauty surpassing 
the Universe smiled, 
On the morn of its birth, 
like an innocent child. 
Or like the rich bloom 
of some delicate flower; 
And the Father rejoiced 
in the work of His power. 


Yet worlds brighter still, 
and a brighter than those, 
And a brighter again, 
He had made, had He chose; 
And you never could name 
that conceivable best, 
‘To exhaust the resources 
the Maker possess’d, 


io 


IO 


HOME 


But I know of one work 

of His Infinite Hand, 
Which special and singular 

ever must stand; 
So perfect, so pure, 

and of gifts such a store, 
That even Omnipotence 

ne’er shall do more. 


The freshness of May, 

and the sweetness of June, 
And the fire of July 

in its passionate noon, 
Munificent August, 

September serene, 
Are together no match 

for my glorious Queen. 


O Mary, all months 
and all days are thine own, 
In thee lasts their joyousness, 
when they are gone; 
And we give to thee May, 
not because it is best, 
But because it comes first, 
and is pledge of the rest. 


HOME 


WHERE’ER I roam in this fair, English land, 

The vision of a temple meets my eyes: 

Modest without: within all glorious rise 

Its love-enclustered columns, and expand 

Their slender arms. Like olive plants they stand 
Each answering each in home’s soft sympathies. 
Sisters and brothers. At the altar sighs 

Parental fondness, and with anxious hand 


217 


15 


20 


218 JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 


‘Tenders its offering of young vows and prayers, 

The same and not the same. Go where I will 10 
The vision beams! ten thousand shrines all one. 

Dear, fertile soil! What foreign culture bears 

Such fruit? ‘That I through distant climes may run 

My weary round, yet miss thy likeness still! 


WAITING FOR THE MORNING 


Quoddam quasi pratum, in quo animae nihil patiebantur, sed mane- 
bant, nondum idonee Visioni Beate.—Bede Hist. wv. 
‘THEY are at rest: 
We may not stir the heaven of their repose 
With loud-voiced grief, or passionate request, 
Or selfish plaint for those 
Who in the mountain grots of Eden lie, 5 
And hear the fourfold river, as it hurries by. 


They hear it sweep 
In distance down the dark and savage vale; 
But they at eddying pool or current deep 
Shall nevermore grow pale; 10 
They hear, and meekly muse, as fain to know 
How long untired, unspent, that giant stream shall flow. 


And soothing sounds 

Blend with the neighboring waters as they glide; 

Posted along the haunted garden’s bounds 15 
Angelic forms abide, 

Echoing, as words of watch, o'er lawn and grove, 

The verses of that hymn which Seraphs chant above. 


HORA NOVISSIMA 


WHENE'ER goes forth Thy dread command, 
And my last hour is nigh, 

Lord, grant me in a Christian land, 
As I was born, to die. 


LUCIS CREATOR OPTIME 


I pray not, Lord, that friends may be, 
Or kindred, standing by,— 

Choice blessing! which I leave to Thee 
To grant me or deny. 


But let my failing limbs beneath 
My Mother’s smile recline; 

And prayers sustain my laboring breath 
From out her sacred shrine. 


And let the cross beside my bed 
In its dread Presence rest: 

And let the absolving words be said, 
To ease a laden breast. 


Thou, Lord, where’er we lie, canst aid; 
But He who taught His own 
To live as one, will not upbraid 


The dread to die alone. 


LUCIS CREATOR OPTIME 
( VESPERS——-SUNDAY ) 


FaTHER of Lights, by whom each day 
Is kindled out of night, 

Who, when the heavens were made, didst lay 
‘Their rudiments in light; 

Thou who didst bind and blend in one 
The glistening morn and evening pale, 

Hear Thou our plaint, when light is gone, 
And lawlessness and strife prevail. 


Hear, lest the whelming weight of crime 
Wreck us with life in view; 
Lest thoughts and schemes of sense and time 
Earn us a sinner’s due. 
So may we knock at Heaven’s door, 
And strive the immortal prize to win, 
Continually and evermore 
Guarded without and pure within. 


219 


IO 


15 


20 


IO 


15 


| 


was fifteen. 


JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 


Grant this, O Father, Only Son, 
And Spirit, God of grace, 

To whom all worship shall be done 
In every time and place. 


DHE PIPCAR OR eDH RE CLOUD 


Leap, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom 
Lead Thou me on! 

The night is dark, and I am far from home— 
Lead Thou me on! 

Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see 

The distant scene—one step enough for me. 


I was not ever thus, nor pray’d that Thou 
Shouldst lead me on. 

I loved to choose and see my path, but now 
Lead Thou me on! 

I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears, 

Pride ruled my will: remember not past years. 


So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still 
Will lead me on, 

O’er moor and fen, o’er crag and torrent, till 
The night is gone; 

And with the morn those angel faces smile 

Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile. 


From APOLOGIA PRO VITA SUA 


Catechism. 

After I was grown up, I put on paper my recollections of the 
thoughts and feelings on religious subjects, which I had at the 
time that I was a child and a boy,—such as had remained on my 
mind with sufficient prominence to make me then consider them 
woith recording. Out of these, written in the Long Vacation of 


20 


10 


15 


WAS. brought up from a child to take great delight in reading 
the Bible; but I had no formed religious convictions till I 
Of course I had a perfect knowledge of my 


APOLOGIA PRO VITA SUA pioN 


1820, and transcribed with additions in 1823, I select two, which 
are at once the most definite among them, and also have a bearing 
on my later convictions. 

1. “I used to wish the Arabian Tales were true: my imagina- 
tion ran on unknown influences, on magical powers, and talismans. 

I thought life might be a dream, or I an Angel, and all 
this world a deception, my fellow-angels by a playful device con- 
cealing themselves from me, and deceiving me with the semblance 
of a material world.” 

Again: “Reading in the Spring of 1816 a sentence from Rem- 
nants of Time, entitled ‘the Saints unknown to the world,’ to the 
effect, that ‘there is nothing in their figure or countenance to dis- 
tinguish them,’ &c., &c., I supposed he spoke of Angels who lived 
in the world, as it were disguised.” 

2. The other remark is this: ‘‘I was very superstitious, and for 
some time previous to my conversion” [when I was fifteen] “used 
constantly to cross myself on going into the dark.” 

Of course I must have got this practice from some external 
source or other; but I can make no sort of conjecture whence; and 
certainly no one had ever spoken to me on the subject of the 
Catholic religion, which I only knew by name. The French 
master was an émigré Priest, but he was simply made a butt, as 
French masters too commonly were in that day, and spoke English 
very imperfectly. “There was a Catholic family in the village, old 
maiden ladies we used to think; but I knew nothing about them. 
I have of late years heard that there were one or two Catholic 
boys in the school; but either we were carefully kept from know- 
ing this, or the knowledge of it made simply no impression on our 
minds. My brother will bear witness how free the school was 
from Catholic ideas. 

I had once been into Warwick Street Chapel, with my father, 
who, I believe, wanted to hear some piece of music; all that I bore 
away from it was the recollection of a pulpit and a preacher, and 
a boy swinging a censer. 

When I was at Littlemore, I was looking over old copy-books 
of my school days, and I found among them my first Latin verse- 
book; and in the first page of it there was a device which almost 
took my breath away with surprise. I have the book before me 
now, and have just been showing it to others. I have written in 


222 JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 


the first page, in my school-boy hand, “John H. Newman, Febru- 
ary 11th, 1811, Verse Book’’; then follow my first Verses. Be- 
tween “Verse” and “Book” I have drawn the figure of a solid 
cross upright, and next to it is, what may indeed be meant for a 
necklace, but what I cannot make out to be anything else than a 
set of beads suspended, with a little cross attached. At this time 
I was not quite ten years old. I suppose I got these ideas from 
some romance, Mrs. Radcliffe’s or Miss Porter’s; or from some 
religious picture; but the strange thing is, how, among the thou- 
sand objects which meet a boy’s eyes, these in particular should so 
have fixed themselves in my mind, that I made them thus practi- 
cally my own. I am certain there was nothing in the churches 
I attended, or the prayer books I read, to suggest them. It must 
be recollected that Anglican churches and prayer books were not 
decorated in those days as I believe they are now. 

When I was fourteen, I read Paine’s Tracts against the Old 
Testament, and found pleasure in thinking of the objections which 
were contained in them. Also, I read some of Hume’s Essays; 
and perhaps that on Miracles. So at least I gave my Father to 
understand; but perhaps it was a brag. Also, I recollect copying 
out some French verses, perhaps Voltaire’s, in denial of the immor- 
tality of the soul, and saying to myself something like ‘““How 
dreadful, but how plausible!” 

When I was fifteen, (in the autumn of 1816,) a great change 
of thought took place in me. I fell under the influences of a 
definite Creed, and received into my intellect impressions of 
dogma, which, through God’s mercy, have never been effaced or 
obscured. Above and beyond the conversations and sermons of 
the excellent man, long dead, the Rev. Walter Mayers, of Pem- 
broke College, Oxford, who was the human means of this begin- 
ning of divine faith in me, was the effect of the books which he 
put into my hands, all of the school of Calvin. One of the first 
books I read was a work of Romaine’s; I neither recollect the 
title nor the contents, except one doctrine, which of course I do 
not include among those which I believe to have come from a 
divine source, viz. the doctrine of final perseverance. I received 
it at once, and believed that the inward conversion of which I was 
conscious, (and of which I still am more certain than that I have 
hands and feet,) would last into the next life, and that I was 


APOLOGIA PRO VITA SUA 223 


elected to eternal glory. I have no consciousness that this belief 
had any tendency whatever to lead me to be careless about pleas- 
ing God. I retained it till the age of twenty-one, when it gradu- 
ally faded away; but I believe that it had some influence on my 
opinions, in the direction of those childish imaginations which I 
have already mentioned, viz. in isolating me from the objects 
which surrounded me, in confirming me in my mistrust of the 
reality of material phenomena, and making me rest in the thought 
of two and two only absolute and luminously self-evident beings, 
myself and my Creator ;—for while I considered myself predes- 
tined to salvation, my mind did not dwell upon others, as fancying 
them simply passed over, not predestined to eternal death. I only 
thought of the mercy to myself. 

The detestable doctrine last mentioned is simply denied and 
abjured, unless my memory strangely deceives me, by the writer 
who made a deeper impression on my mind than any other, and to 
whom (humanly speaking) I almost owe my soul,——-Thomas Scott 
of Aston Sandford. I so admired and delighted in his writings, 
that, when I was an Under-graduate, I thought of making a visit 
to his Parsonage, in order to see a man whom I so deeply revered. 
I hardly think I could have given up the idea of this expedition, 
even after I had taken my degree; for the news of his death in 
1821 came upon me as a disappointment as well as a sorrow. I 
hung upon the lips of Daniel Wilson, afterwards Bishop of Cal- 
cutta, as in two sermons at St. John’s Chapel he gave the history 
of Scott’s life and death. I had been possessed of his Force of 
Truth and Essays from a boy; his Commentary I bought when I 
was an Under-graduate. 

What, I suppose, will strike any reader of Scott’s history and 
writings, is his bold unworldliness and vigorous independence of 
mind. He followed truth wherever it led him, beginning with 
Unitarianism, and ending in a zealous faith in the Holy Trinity. 
It was he who first planted deep in my mind that fundamental 
truth of religion. With the assistance of Scott’s Essays, and the 
admirable work of Jones of Nayland, I made a collection of Scrip- 
ture texts in proof of the doctrine, with remarks (I think) of my 
own upon them, before I was sixteen; and a few months later i 
drew up aseries of texts in support of each verse of the Athanasian 
Creed. ‘These papers I have still. 


224 JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 


Besides his unworldliness, what I also admired in Scott was 
his resolute opposition to Antinomianism, and the minutely prac- 
tical character of his writings. “They show him to be a true Eng- 
lishman, and I deeply felt his influence; and for years I used 
almost as proverbs what I considered to be the scope and issue of 
his doctrine, Holiness rather than peace, and Growth the only evi- 
dence of life. 

Calvinists make a sharp separation between the elect and the 
world; there is much in this that is cognate or parallel to the 
Catholic doctrine; but they go on to say, as I understand them, 
very differently from Catholicism,—that the converted and the 
unconverted can be discriminated by man, that the justified are 
conscious of their state of justification, and that the regenerate 
cannot fall away. Catholics on the other hand shade and soften 
the awful antagonism between good and evil, which is one of their 
dogmas, by holding that there are different degrees of justification, 
that there is a great difference in point of gravity between sin and 
sin, that there is the possibility and the danger of falling away, 
and that there is no certain knowledge given to any one that he is 
simply in a state of grace, and much less that he is to persevere to 
the end:—of the Calvinistic tenets the only one which took root 
in my mind was the fact of heaven and hell, divine favor and di- 
vine wrath, of the justified and the unjustified. “The notion that 
the regenerate and the justified were one and the same, and that 
the regenerate, as such, had the gift of perseverance, remained with 
me not many years, as I have said already. 

This main Catholic doctrine of the warfare between the city of 
God and the powers of darkness was also deeply impressed upon 
my mind by a work of a character very opposite to Calvinism, 
Law’s Serious Call. | 

From this time I have held with a full inward assent and belief 
the doctrine of eternal punishment, as delivered by our Lord Him- 
self, in as true a sense as I hold that of eternal happiness; though 
I have tried in various ways to make that truth less terrible to the 
imagination. 

Now I come to two other works, which produced a deep im- 
pression on me in the same Autumn of 1816, when I was fifteen 
years old, each contrary to each, and planting in me the seeds of 
an intellectual inconsistency which disabled me for a long course 


APOLOGIA PRO VITA SUA atc 


of years. I read Joseph Milner’s Church History, and was noth- 
ing short of enamored of the long extracts from St. Augustine, 
St. Ambrose, and the other Fathers which I found there. I read 
them as being the religion of the primitive Christians: but simul- 
taneously with Milner I read Newton On the Prophecies, and in 
consequence became most firmly convinced that the Pope was the 
Antichrist predicted by Daniel, St. Paul, and St. John. My 
imagination was stained by the effects of this doctrine up to the 
year 1843; it had been obliterated from my reason and judgment 
at an earlier date; but the thought remained upon me as a sort of 
false conscience. Hence came that conflict of mind, which so 
many have felt besides myself ;—leading some men to make a 
compromise between two ideas, so inconsistent with each other,— 
driving others to beat out the one idea or the other from their 
minds,—and ending in my own case, after many years of intel- 
lectual unrest, in the gradual decay and extinction of one of 
them,—lI do not say in its violent death, for why should I not have 
murdered it sooner, if I murdered it at all? 

I am obliged to mention, though I do it with great reluctance, 
another deep imagination, which at this time, the autumn of 1816, 
took possession of me,—there can be no mistake about the fact; 
viz. that it would be the will of God that I should lead a single 
life. This anticipation, which has held its ground almost con- 
tinuously ever since,—with the break of a month now and a 
month then, up to 1829, and after that date, without any break 
at all_—was more or less connected in my mind with the notion, 
that my calling in life would require such a sacrifice as celibacy 
involved ; as, for instance, missionary work among the heathen, to 
which I had a great drawing for some years. It also strength- 
ened my feeling of separation from the visible world, of which I 
have spoken above. 

In 1822 I came under very different influences from those to 
which I had hitherto been subjected. At that time, Mr. Whately, 
as he was then, afterwards Archbishop of Dublin, for the few 
months he remained in Oxford, which he was leaving for good, 
snowed great kindness to me. He renewed it in 1825, when he 
became Principal of Alban Hall, making me his Vice-Principal 
and Tutor. Of Doctor Whately I will speak presently: for from 
1822 to 1825 I saw most of the present Provost of Oriel, Doctor 


226 JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 


Hawkins, at that time Vicar of St. Mary’s; and, when I took 
orders in 1824 and had a curacy in Oxford, then, during the Long 
Vacations, I was especially thrown into his company. I can say 
with a full heart that I love him, and have never ceased to love 
him; and I thus preface what otherwise might sound rude, that 
in the course of the many years in which we were together after- 
wards, he provoked me very much from time to time, though I 
am perfectly certain that I have provoked him a great deal more. 
Moreover, in me such provocation was unbecoming, both because 
he was the Head of my College, and because, in the first years that 
I knew him, he had been in many ways of great service to my 
mind. 

He was the first who taught me to weigh my words, and to be 
cautious in my statements. He led me to that mode of limiting 
and clearing my sense in discussion and in controversy, and of 
distinguishing between cognate ideas, and of obviating mistakes 
by anticipation, which to my surprise has been since considered, 
even in quarters friendly to me, to savor of the polemics of 
Rome. He is a man of most exact mind himself, and he used to 
snub me severely, on reading, as he was kind enough to do, the 
first Sermons that I wrote, and other compositions which I was 
engaged upon. 

Then as to doctrine, he was the means of great additions to my 
belief. As I have noticed elsewhere, he gave me the Treatise on 
A postolical Preaching, by Sumner, afterwards Archbishop of Can- 
terbury, from which I was led to give up my remaining Calvin- 
ism, and to receive the doctrine of Baptismal Regeneration. In 
many other ways too he was of use to me, on subjects semi- 
religious and semi-scholastic. 

It was Doctor Hawkins too who taught me to anticipate that, 
before many years were over, there would be an attack made upon 
the books and the canon of Scripture. I was brought to the same 
belief by the conversation of Mr. Blanco White, who also led me 
to have freer views on the subject of inspiration than were usual 
in the Church of England at the time. 

‘There is one other principle, which I gained from Doctor Haw- 
kins, more directly bearing upon Catholicism, than any that I have 
mentioned; and that is the doctrine of Tradition. When I was 
an Under-graduate, I heard him preach in the University Pulpit 


APOLOGIA PRO VITA SUA 2.27 
his celebrated sermon on the subject, and recollect how long it 
appeared to me, though he was at that time a very striking 
preacher; but, when I read it and studied it as his gift, it made a 
most serious impression upon me. He does not go one step, I 
think, beyond the high Anglican doctrine, nay he does not reach 
it; but he does his work thoroughly, and his view was in him 
original, and his subject was a novel one at the time. He lays 
down a proposition, self-evident as soon as stated, to those who 
have at all examined the structure of Scripture, viz. that the 
sacred text was never intended to teach doctrine, but only to prove 
it, and that, if we would learn doctrine, we must have recourse 
to the formularies of the Church; for instance to the Catechism, 
and to the Creeds. He considers, that, after learning from them 
the doctrines of Christianity, the inquirer must verify them by 
Scripture. [his view, most true in its outline, most fruitful in 
its consequences, opened upon me a large field of thought. Doctor 
Whately held it too. One of its effects was to strike at the root 
of the principle on which the Bible Society was set up. I belonged 
to its Oxford Association; it became a matter of time when I 
should withdraw my name from its subscription-list, though I did 
not do so at once. 

It is with pleasure that I pay here a tribute to the memory of 
the Rev. William James, then Fellow of Oriel; who, about the 
year 1823, taught ime the doctrine of Apostolical Succession, in the 
course of a walk, I think, round Christ Church meadow; I recol- 
lect being somewhat impatient of the subject at the time. 

It was at about this date, I suppose, that I read Bishop Butler’s 
Analogy; the study of which has been to so many, as it was to me, 
an era in their religious opinions. Its inculcation of a visible 
Church, the oracle of truth and a pattern of sanctity, of the duties 
of external religion, and of the historical character of Revelation, 
are characteristics of this great work which strike the reader at 
once; for myself, if I may attempt to determine what I most 
gained from it, it lay in two points, which I shall have an oppor- 
tunity of dwelling on in the sequel; they are the underlying prin- 
ciples of a great portion of my teaching. First, the very idea of 
an analogy between the separate works of God leads to the conclu- 
sion that the system which is of less importance is economically or 
sacramentally connected with the more momentous system, and of 


228 JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 


this conclusion the theory, to which I was inclined as a boy, viz. 
the unreality of material phenomena, is an ultimate resolution. 
At this time I did not make the distinction between matter itself 
and its phenomena, which is so necessary and so obvious in dis- 
cussing the subject. Secondly Butler’s doctrine that Probability 
is the guide of life, led me, at least under the teaching to which 
a few years later I was introduced, to the question of the logical 
cogency of Faith, on which I have written so much. ‘Thus to 
Butler I trace those two principles of my teaching, which have led 
to a charge against me both of fancifulness and scepticism. 

And now as to Doctor Whately. I owe him a great deal. He 
was a man of generous and warm heart. He was particularly 
loyal to his friends, and to use the common phrase, “all his geese 
were swans.” While I was still awkward and timid in 1822, he 
took me by the hand, and acted towards me the part of a gentle 
and encouraging instructor. He, emphatically, opened my mind, 
and taught me to think and to use my reason. After being first 
noticed by him in 1822, I became very intimate with him in 1825, 
when I was his Vice-Principal at Alban Hall. I gave up that 
office in 1826, when I became Tutor of my College, and his hold 
upon me gradually relaxed. He had done his work towards 
me or nearly so, when he had taught me to see with my own eyes 
and to walk with my own feet. Not that I had not a good deal 
to learn from others still, but I influenced them as well as they me, 
and cooperated rather than merely concurred with them. As to 
Doctor Whately, his mind was too different from mine for us 
to remain long on one line. I recollect how dissatisfied he was 
with an Article of mine in the London Review, which Blanco 
White, good-humoredly, only called Platonic. When I was di- 
verging from him in opinion, (which he did not like,) I thought 
of dedicating my first book to him, in words to the effect that he 
had not only taught me to think, but to think for myself. He left 
Oxford in 1831; after that, as far as I can recollect, I never saw 
him but twice,—when he visited the University; once in the street 
in 1834, once in a room in 1838. From the time that he left, I 
have always felt a real affection for what I must call his memory; 
for, at least from the year 1834, he made himself dead to me. 
He had practically indeed given me up from the time that he 
became Archbishop in 1831; but in 1834 a correspondence took 


oe. 


APOLOGIA PRO VITA SUA 2.29 


place between us, which, though conducted especially on his side 
in a friendly spirit, was the expression of differences of opinion 
which acted as a final close to our intercourse. My reason told 
me that it was impossible we could have got on together longer, 
had he stayed at Oxford; yet I loved him too much to bid him fare- 
well without pain. After a few years had passed, I began to 
believe that his influence on me in a higher respect than intellectual 
advance, (I will not say through his fault,) had not been satis- 
factory. I believe that he has inserted sharp things in his later 
works about me. “They have never come in my way, and I have 
not thought it necessary to seek out what would pain me so much 
in the reading. 

What he did for me in point of religious opinion, was, first, to 
teach me the existence of the Church, as a substantive body o1 
corporation; next, to fix in me those anti-Erastian views of Church 
polity, which were one of the most prominent features of the 
Tractarian movement. On this point, and, as far as I know, on 
this point alone, he and Hurrell Froude intimately sympathized, 
though Froude’s development of opinion here was of a later date. 
In the year 1826, in the course of a walk, he said much to me about 
a work then just published, called Letters on the Church by an 
Episcopalian. He said that it would make my blood boil. It was 
certainly a most powerful composition. One of our common 
friends told me, that, after reading it, he could not keep still, but 
went on walking up and down his room. It was ascribed at once 
to Whately; I gave eager expression to the contrary opinion; but 
I found the belief of Oxford in the affirmative to be too strong for 
me; rightly or wrongly I yielded to the general voice; and I have 
never heard, then or since, of any disclaimer of authorship on the 
part of Doctor Whately. 

The main positions of this able essay are these: first, that Church 
and State should be independent of each other:—he speaks of the 
duty of protesting “against the profanation of Christ’s kingdom, 
by that double usurpation, the interference of the Church in 
temporals, of the State in spirituals,” p. 191; and, secondly, that 
the Church may justly and by right retain its property, though 
separated from the State. “The clergy,” he says, p. 133, “though 
they ought not to be the hired servants of the Civil Magistrate, 
may justly retain their revenues; and the State, though it has no 


230 JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 


right of interference in spiritual concerns, not only is justly en- 
titled to support from the ministers of religion, and from all other 
Christians, but would, under the system I am recommending, 
obtain it much more effectually.” The author of this work, who- 
ever he may be, argues out both these points with great force and 
ingenuity, and with a thoroughgoing vehemence, which perhaps 
we may refer to the circumstance, that he wrote, not in propria 
persona, and as thereby answerable for every sentiment that he ad- 
vanced, but in the professed character of a Scotch Episcopalian. 
His work had a gradual, but a deep effect on my mind. 

I am not aware’ of any other religious. opinion which I owe to 
Doctor Whately. In his special theological tenets I had no sym- 
pathy. In the next year, 1827, he told me he considered that I 
was Arianizing. The case was this: though at that time I had not 
read Bishop Bull’s Defensio nor the Fathers, I was just then very 
strong for that ante-Nicene view of the Trinitarian doctrine, 
which some writers, both Catholic and non-Catholic, have accused 
of wearing a sort of Arian exterior. ‘This is the meaning of a 
passage in Froude’s Remains, in which he seems to accuse me of 
speaking against the Athanasian Creed. I had contrasted the two 
aspects of the Trinitarian doctrine, which are respectively pre- 
sented by the Athanasian Creed and the Nicene. My criticisms 
were to the effect that some of the verses of the former Creed were 
unnecessarily scientific. “This is a specimen of a certain disdain 
for Antiquity which had been growing on me now for several 
years. It showed itself in some flippant language against the 
Fathers in the Encyclopedia Metropolitana, about whom I knew 
little at the time, except what I had learnt as a boy from Joseph 
Milner. In writing on the Scripture Miracles in 1825-6, I had 
read Middleton On the Miracles of the Early Church and had 
imbibed a portion of his spirit. 

‘The truth is, I was beginning to prefer intellectual excellence 
to moral; I was drifting in the direction of the Liberalism of the 
day. I was rudely awakened from my dream at the end of 1827 
by two great blows— illness and bereavement. 


HISTORICAL SKETCHES 231 


From HISTORICAL SKETCHES 


ABELARD 


AND, as it happens in kings’ cabinets, that surmises arise, and 
rumors spread, of what is said in council, and is in course of 
preparation, and secrets perhaps get wind, true in substance or in 
direction, though distorted in detail; so too, before the Church 
speaks, one or other of her forward children speaks for 
her, and, while he does anticipate to a certain point 
what she is about to say or enjoin, he states it incorrectly, makes 
it error instead of truth, and risks his own faith in the process. 
Indeed, this is actually one source, or rather concomitant, of 
heresy, the presence of some misshapen, huge, and grotesque fore- 
shadow of true statements which are to come. Speaking under 
correction, I would apply this remark to the heresy of Tertullian 
or of Sabellius, which may be considered a reaction from existing 
errors, and an attempt, presumptuous, and therefore unsuccessful, 
to meet them with those divinely appointed correctives which the 
Church alone can apply, and which she will actually apply, when 
the proper moment comes. “The Gnostics boasted of their intel- 
lectual proficiency before the time of St. Irenaeus, St. Athanasius, 
and St. Augustine; yet, when these doctors made their appearance, 
I suppose they were examples of that knowledge, true and deep, 
which the Gnostics professed. Apollinaris anticipated the work 
of St. Cyril and the Ephesine Council, and became an heresiarch 
in consequence; and, to come down to the present times, we may 
conceive that writers, who have impatiently fallen away from the 
Church, because she would not adopt their views, would have 
found, had they but trusted her, and waited, that she knew how to 
profit by them, though she never could have need to borrow her 
enunciations from them; for their writings contained, so to speak, 
truth in the ore, truth which they themselves had not the gift to 
disengage from its foreign concomitants, and safely use, which she 
alone could use, which she would use in her destined hour, and 
which became their stone of stumbling simply because she did not 
use it faster. Now, applying this principle to the subject before 
us, I observe, that, supposing Abelard to be the first master of 
scholastic philosophy, as many seem to hold, we shall have still no 


Pigs JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 


dificulty in condemning the author, while we honor the work. 
To him is only the glory of spoiling by his own self-will what 
would have been done well and surely under the teaching and 
guidance of Infallible Authority. 

Nothing is more certain than that some ideas are consistent with 
one another, and others inconsistent; and again, that every truth 
must be consistent with every other truth ;—hence, that all truths 
of whatever kind form into one large body of Truth, by virtue of 
the consistency between one truth and another, which is a connect- 
ing link running through them all. The science which discovers 
this connection is logic; and, as it discovers the connection when 
the truths are given, so, having one truth given and the connecting 
principle, it is able to go on to ascertain the other. "Though all 
this is obvious, it was realized and acted on in the Middle Age 
with a distinctness unknown, before; all subjects of knowledge 
were viewed as parts of one vast system, each with its own place 
in it, and from knowing one, another was inferred. Not indeed 
always rightly inferred, because the art might be less perfect than 
the science, the instrument than the theory and aim; but I am 
speaking of the principle of the scholastic method, of which Saints 
and Doctors were the teachers ;—such I conceive it to be, and Abe- 
lard was the ill-fated logician who had a principal share in bring- 
ing it into operation. 

Others will consider the great St. Anselm and the school of 
Bec as the proper source of Scholasticism; I am not going to discuss 
the question; anyhow, Abelard, and not St. Anselm, was the Pro- 
fessor at the University of Paris, and it is of Universities that I 
am speaking; anyhow, Abelard illustrates the strength and the 
weakness of the principle of advertising and communicating knowl- 
edge for its own sake, which I have called the University principle, 
whether he is, or is not, the first of scholastic philosophers or 
scholastic theologians. And, though I could not speak of him at 
all without mentioning the subject of his teaching, yet, after all, 
it is of him and of his teaching itself that I am going to speak, 
whatever that might be which he actually taught. 

Since Charlemagne’s time the schools of Paris had continued, 
with various fortunes, faithful, as far as the age admitted, to the 
old learning, as other schools elsewhere, when, in the eleventh cen- 
tury, the famous school of Bec began to develop the powers of 


HISTORICAL SKETCHES 233 


logic in forming a new philosophy. As the inductive method rose 
in Bacon, so did the logical in the medieval schoolmen; and 
Aristotle, the most comprehensive intellect of antiquity, as the one 
who had conceived the sublime idea of mapping the whole field of 
knowledge, and subjecting all things to one profound analysis, 
became the presiding master in their lecture halls. It was at the 
end of the eleventh century that William of Champeaux founded 
the celebrated Abbey of St. Victor under the shadow of Ste. Gene- 
vieve, and by the dialectic method which he introduced into his 
teaching has a claim to have commenced the. work of forming 
the University out of the Schools of Paris. For one at least, out 
of the two characteristics of a University, he prepared the way; 
for, though the schools were not public till after his day, so as to 
admit laymen as well as clerks, and foreigners as well as natives 
of the place, yet the logical principle of constructing all sciences 
into one system implied of course a recognition of all the sciences 
that are comprehended in it. Of this William of Champeaux, or 
de Campellis, Abelard was the pupil; he had studied the dialectic 
art elsewhere, before he offered himself for his instructions; and, 
in the course of two years, when as yet he had only reached the 
age of twenty-two, he made such progress as to be capable of quar- 
relling with his master, and setting up a school for himself. 

This school of Abelard was first situated in the royal castle of 
Melun; then at Corbeil, which was nearer to Paris, and where he 
attracted to himself a considerable number of hearers. His 
labors had an injurious effect upon his health; and at length he 
withdrew for two years to his native Brittany. Whether other 
causes cooperated in this withdrawal, I think, is not known; but, 
at the end of the two years, we find him returning to Paris, and 
renewing his attendance on the lectures of William, who was by 
this time a monk. Rhetoric was the subject of the lectures he now 
heard; and after a while the pupil repeated with greater force and 
success his former treatment of his teacher. He held a public 
disputation with him, got the victory, and reduced him to silence. 
The school of William was deserted, and its master himself became 
an instance of the vicissitudes incident to that gladiatorial wisdom 
(as I may style it) which was then eclipsing the old Benedictine 
method of the Seven Arts. After a time, Abelard found his repu- 
tation sufficient to warrant him in setting up a school himself on 


234 JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 


Mount Ste. Geneviéve; whence he waged incessant war against 
the unwearied logician, who by this time had rallied his forces to 
repel the young and ungrateful adventurer who had raised his 
hand against him. 

Great things are done by devotion to one idea; there is one class 
of geniuses, who would never be what they are, could they grasp a 
second. ‘The calm philosophical mind, which contemplates parts 
without denying the whole, and the whole without confusing the 
parts, is notoriously indisposed to action; whereas single and simple 
views arrest the mind, and hurry it on to carry them out. ‘Thus, 
men of one idea and nothing more, whatever their merit, must be 
to a certain extent narrow-minded; and it is not wonderful that 
Abelard’s devotion to the new philosophy made him undervalue 
the Seven Arts out of which it had grown. He felt it impossible 
so to honor what was now to be added, as not to dishonor what 
existed before. He would not suffer the Arts to have their own 
use, since he had found a new instrument for a new purpose. So 
he opposed the reading of the Classics. “The monks had opposed 
them before him; but this is little to our present purpose; it was 
the duty of men, who abjured the gifts of this world on the prin- 
ciple of mortification, to deny themselves literature just as they 
would deny themselves particular friendships or figured music. 
‘The doctrine which Abelard introduced and represents was 
founded on a different basis. He did not recognize in the poets 
of antiquity any other merit than that of furnishing an assemblage 
of elegant phrases and figures; and accordingly he asks why they 
should not be banished from the city of God, since Plato banished 
them from his own commonwealth. The animus of this language 
is clear, when we turn to the pages of John of Salisbury and 
Peter of Blois, who were champions of the ancient learning. We 
find them complaining that the careful “getting up,” as we now 
call it, ‘of books,” was growing out of fashion. Youths once 
studied critically the text of poets or philosophers; they got them 
by heart; they analyzed their arguments; they noted down their 
fallacies; they were closely examined in the matters which had 
been brought before them in lecture; they composed. But now, 
another teaching was coming in; students were promised truth in 
a nut-shell; they intended to get possession of the sum-total of 
philosophy in less than two or three years; and facts were appre- 


HISTORICAL SKETCHES 235 


hended, not in their substance and details, by means of living and, 
as it were, personal documents, but in dead abstracts and tables. 
Such were the reclamations to which the new Logic gave occasion. 

These, however, are lesser matters; we have a graver quarrel 
with Abelard than that of his undervaluing the Classics. As I 
have said, my main object here is not what he taught, but why and 
how, and how he lived. Now it is certain, his activity was stimu- 
lated by nothing very high, but something very earthly and sordid. 
I grant there is nothing morally wrong in the mere desire to rise 
in the world, though Ambition and it are twin sisters. I should 
not blame Abelard merely for wishing to distinguish himself at the 
University ; but when he makes the ecclesiastical state the instru- 
ment of his ambition, mixes up spiritual matters with temporal, 
and aims at a bishopric through the medium of his logic, he joins 
together things incompatible, and cannot complain of being cen- 
sured. It is he himself who tells us, unless my memory plays me 
false, that the circumstance of William of Champeaux being pro- 
moted to the see of Chalons, was an incentive to him to pursue the 
same path with an eye to the same reward. Accordingly, we 
next hear of his attending the theological lectures of a certain mas- 
ter of William’s, named Anselm, an old man, whose school was 
situated at Laon. ‘This person had a great reputation in his day; 
John of Salisbury, speaking of him in the next generation, calls 
him the doctor of doctors; he had been attended by students from 
Italy and Germany; but the age had advanced since he was in his 
prime, and Abelard was disappointed in a teacher who had been 
good enough for William. He left Anselm, and began to lecture 
on the prophet Ezekiel on his own resources. 

Now came the time of his great popularity, which was more 
than his head could bear; which dizzied him, took him off his legs, 
and whirled him to his destruction. I spoke in my foregoing 
chapter of those three qualities of true wisdom, which a Univer- 
sity, absolutely and nakedly considered, apart from the safeguards 
which constitute its integrity, is sure to compromise. Wisdom, 
says the inspired writer, is desursum, is pudica, is pacifica, “from 
above, chaste, peaceable.” We have already seen enough of Abe- 
lard’s career to understand that his wisdom, instead of being 
“hacifica,’ was ambitious and contentious. An Apostle speaks of 
the tongue both as a blessing and as a curse. It may be the begin- 


236 JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 


ning of a fire, he says, a “Universitas iniquitatis’; and alas! such 
did it become in the mouth of the gifted Abelard. His eloquence 
was wonderful; he dazzled his contemporaries, says Fulco, “by the 
brilliancy of his genius, the sweetness of his eloquence, the ready 
flow of his language, and the subtlety of his knowledge.’ People 
came to him from all quarters;—from Rome, in spite of moun- 
tains and robbers; from England, in spite of the sea; from Flan- 
ders and Germany; from Normandy, and the remote districts of 
France; from Angers and Poitiers; from Navarre by the Pyrenees, 
and from Spain, besides the students of Paris itself; and among 
those who sought his instructions now or afterwards were the 
great luminaries of the schools in the next generation. Such were 
Peter of Poitiers, Peter Lombard, John of Salisbury, Arnold of 
Brescia, Ivo, and Geoffrey of Auxerre. It was too much for a 
weak head and heart, weak in spite of intellectual power; for 
vanity will possess the head, and worldliness the heart, of the man, 
however gifted, whose wisdom is not an effluence of the Eternal 
Light. 

True wisdom is not only “‘pacifica,” it is “pudica’’; chaste as 
well as peaceable. Alas for Abelard! a second disgrace, deeper 
than ambition, is his portion now. ‘The strong man—the Samsor. 
of the schools in the wildness of his course, the Solomon in the 
fascination of his genius—shivers and falls before the temptation 
which overcame that mighty pair, the most excelling in body and 
in mind. 


Desire of wine, and all delicious drinks, 

Which many a famous warrior overturns, 
Thou couldst repress; nor did the dancing ruby 
Sparkling outpour’d, the flavor or the smell, 
Or taste that cheers the heart of gods and men, 
Allure thee from the cool crystalline stream. 
But what avail’d this temperance, not complete, 
Against another object more enticing? 

What boots it at one gate to make defence, 

And at another to let in the foe, 

Effeminately vanquished? 


In a time when colleges were unknown, and the young scholar 
was commonly thrown upon the dubious hospitality of a great city, 
Abelard might even be thought careful of his honor, that he went 


HISTORICAL SKETCHES 237 


to lodge with an old ecclesiastic, had not his host’s niece Eloisa 
lived with him. A more subtle snare was laid for him than beset 
the heroic champion or the all-accomplished monarch of Israel; 
for sensuality came upon him under the guise of intellect, and it 
was the high mental endowments of Eloisa, who became his pupil, 
speaking in her eyes, and thrilling on her tongue, which were the 
intoxication and the delirium of Abelard. 

He is judged, he is punished ;—but he is not reclaimed. “True 
wisdom is not only “pacifica,” not only “pudica’’; it is ““desursum”’ 
too. It is a revelation from above; it knows heresy as little as it 
knows strife or licence. But Abelard, who had run the career of 
earthly wisdom in two of its phases, now is destined to represent 
its third. 

It is at the famous Abbey of St. Denis that we find him lan- 
guidly rising from his dream of sin, and the suffering that fol- 
lowed. The bad dream is cleared away; clerks come to him and 
the Abbot,—begging him to lecture still, for love now, as for gain 
before. Once more his school is thronged by the curious and 
the studious; but at length a rumor spreads, that Abelard is 
exploring the way to some novel view on the subject of the Most 
Holy Trinity. Wherefore is hardly clear, but about the same 
time the monks drive him away from the place of refuge he had 
gained. He betakes himself to a cell, and thither his pupils follow 
him. “I betook myself to a certain cell,” he says, ‘wishing to give 
myself to the schools, as was my custom. ‘hither so great a 
multitude of scholars flocked, that there was neither room to house 
them, nor fruits of the earth to feed them,” such was the enthusi- 
asm of the student, such the attraction of the teacher, when knowl- 
edge was advertised freely, and its market opened. 

Next he is in Champagne, in a delightful solitude, near Nogent 
in the diocese of Troyes. Here the same phenomenon presents 
itself, which is so frequent in his history. “‘When the scholars 
knew it,” he says, “they began to crowd thither from all parts; 
and, leaving other cities and strongholds, they were content to 
dwell in the wilderness. For spacious houses they framed for 
themselves small tabernacles, and for delicate food they put up 
with wild herbs. Secretly did they whisper among themselves: 
‘Behold, the whole world is gone out after him!’ When, how- 
ever, my Oratory could not hold even a moderate portion of them, 


233° JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 


then they were forced to enlarge it, and to build it up with wood 
and stone.” He called the place his Paraclete, because it had been 
his consolation. 

I do not know why I need follow his life further. I have said 
enough to illustrate the course of one, who may be called the 
founder, or at least the first great name, of the Parisian schools. 
After the events I have mentioned he is found in Lower Brittany ; 
then, being about forty-eight years of age, in the Abbey of St. 
Gildas; then with Ste. Genevieve again. He had to sustain the 
fiery eloquence of a Saint, directed against his novelties; he had to 
present himself before two Councils; he had to burn the book 
which had given offence-to pious ears. His last two years were 
spent at Clugni on his way to Rome. The home of the weary, the 
hospital of the sick, the school of the erring, the tribunal of the 
penitent, is the city of St. Peter. He did not reach it; but he is 
said to have retracted what had given scandal in his writings, and 
to have made an edifying end. He died at the age of sixty-two, in 
the year of grace 1142. 

In reviewing his career, the career of so great an intellect so 
miserably thrown away, we are reminded of the famous words of 
the dying scholar and jurist, which are a lesson to us all: “Heu, 
vitam perdidi, operose nihil agendo.’’ A happier lot be ours! 


From THE IDEA OF A UNIVERSITY 
LITERATURE 


‘THOUGHT and speech are inseparable from each other. Matter 
and expression are parts of one; style is a thinking out into lan- 
guage. “This is what I have been laying down, and this is liter- 
ature: not things, not the verbal symbols of things; not on the 
other hand mere words; but thoughts expressed in language. Call 
to mind, Gentlemen, the meaning of the Greek word which ex- 
presses this special prerogative of man over the feeble intelligence 
of the inferior animals. It is called Logos: what does Logos 
mean? it stands both for reason and for speech, and it is difficult 
to say which it means more properly. It means both at once: 
why? because really they cannot be divided,—because they are in 
a true sense one. When we can separate light and illumination, 


THE IDEA OF A UNIVERSITY 239 


life and motion, the convex and the concave of a curve, then will it 
be possible for thought to tread speech under foot, and to hope to 
do without it—then will it be conceivable that the vigorous and 
fertile intellect should renounce its own double, its instrument of 
expression, and the channel of its speculations and emotions. 

Critics should consider this view of the subject before they lay 
down such canons of taste as the writer whose pages I have quoted. 
Such men as he is consider fine writing to be an addition from 
without to the matter treated of,—a sort of ornament superin- 
duced, or a luxury indulged in, by those who have time and inclina- 
tion for such vanities. “They speak as if one man could do the 
thought, and another the style. We read in Persian travels of the 
way in which young gentlemen go to work in the East, when they 
would engage in correspondence with those who inspire them with 
hope or fear. “They cannot write one sentence themselves so they 
betake themselves to the professional letter-writer. “They confide 
to him the object they have in view. They have a point to gain 
from a superior, a favor to ask, an evil to deprecate; they have to 
approach a man in power, or to make court to some beautiful lady. 
The professional man manufactures words for them, as they are 
wanted, as a stationer sells them paper, or a schoolmaster might 
cut their pens. “Thought and word are, in their conception, two 
things, and thus there is a division of labor. “The man of thought 
comes to the man of words; and the man of words, duly instructed 
in the thought, dips the pen of desire into the ink of devotedness, 
and proceeds to spread it over the page of desolation. ‘Then the 
nightingale of affection is heard to warble to the rose of loveliness, 
while the breeze of anxiety plays around the brow of expectation. 
This is what the Easterns are said to consider fine writing; and it 
seems pretty much the idea of the school of critics to whom I have 
been referring. 

We have an instance in literary history of this very proceeding 
nearer home, in a great University, in the latter years of the last 
century. I have referred to it before now in a public lecture 
elsewhere; but it is too much in point here to be omitted. A 
learned Arabic scholar had to deliver a set of lectures before its 
doctors and professors on an historical subject in which his reading 
had lain. A linguist is conversant with science rather than with 
literature; but this gentleman felt that his lectures must not be 


240 JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 


without a style. Being of the opinion of the Orientals, with 
whose writings he was familiar, he determined to buy a style. He 
took the step of engaging a person, at a price, to turn the matter 
which he had got together into ornamental English. Observe, he 
did not wish for mere grammatical English, but for an elaborate, 
pretentious style. An artist was found in the person of a country 
curate, and the job was carried out. His lectures remain to this 
day, in their own place in the protracted series of annual Dis- 
courses to which they belong, distinguished amid a number of 
heavyish compositions by the rhetorical and ambitious diction for 
which he went into the market. ‘This learned divine, indeed, and 
the author I have quoted, differ from each other in the estimate 
they respectively form of literary composition; but they agree to- 
gether in this,—in considering such composition a trick and a 
trade; they put it on a par with the gold plate and the flowers and 
the music of a banquet, which do not make the viands better, but 
the entertainment more pleasurable; as if language were the hired 
servant, the mere mistress of the reason, and not the lawful wife 
in her own house. 

But can they really think that Homer, or Pindar, or Shakes- 
peare, or Dryden, or Walter Scott, were accustomed to aim at dic- 
tion for its own sake, instead of being inspired with their subject, 
and pouring forth beautiful words because they had beautiful 
thoughts? this is surely too great a paradox to be borne. Rather, 
it is the fire within the author’s breast which overflows in the 
torrent of his burning, irresistible eloquence; it is the poetry of his 
inner soul, which relieves itself in the Ode or the Elegy; and his 
mental attitude and bearing, the beauty of his moral countenance, 
the force and keenness of his logic, are imaged in the tenderness, 
or energy, or richness of his language. Nay, according to the 
well-known line, ‘‘facit indignatio versus’; not the words alone, 
but even the rhythm, the meter, the verse, will be the contempo- 
raneous offspring of the emotion or imagination which possesses 
him. ‘‘Poeta nascitur, non fit,’ says the proverb; and this is in 
numerous instances true of his poems, as well as of himself. “They 
are born, not framed; they are a strain rather than a composition; 
and their perfection is the monument, not so much of his skill as 
of his power. And this is true of prose as well as of verse in its 


THE IDEA OF A UNIVERSITY 241 


degree: who will not recognize in the Vision of Mirza a delicacy 
and beauty of style which is very difficult to describe, but which is 
felt to be in exact correspondence to the ideas of which it is the 
expression ? 


And, since the thoughts and reasonings of an author have, as I 
have said, a personal character, no wonder that his style is not only 
the image of his subject, but of his mind. That pomp of language, 
that full and tuneful diction, that felicitousness in the choice and 
exquisiteness in the collocation of words, which to prosaic writers 
seem artificial, is nothing else but the mere habit and way of a 
lofty intellect. Aristotle, in his sketch of the magnanimous man, 
tells us that his voice is deep, his motions slow, and his stature 
commanding. In like manner, the elocution of a great intellect is 
great. His language expresses, not only his great thoughts, but 
his great self. Certainly he might use fewer words than he uses; 
but he fertilizes his simplest ideas, and germinates into a multitude 
of details, and prolongs the march of his sentences, and sweeps 
round to the full diapason of his harmony, as if xtdel yaiwy, 
rejoicing in his own vigor and richness of resource. I say, a nar- 
row critic will call it verbiage, when really it is a sort of fulness of 
heart, parallel to that which makes the merry boy whistle as he 
walks, or the strong man, like the smith in the novel, flourish his 
club when there is no one to fight with. 

Shakespeare furnishes us with frequent instances of this peculi- 
arity, and all so beautiful, that it is difficult to select for quotation. 
For instance, in Macbeth :— 


Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, 
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, 

Raze out the written troubles of the brain, 
And, with some sweet oblivious antidote, 
Cleanse the foul bosom of that perilous stuff, 
Which weighs upon the heart? 


Here a simple idea, by a process which belongs to the orator 
rather than to the poet, but still comes from the native vigor of 
genius, is expanded into a many-membered period, 


242 JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 


The following from Hamlet is of the same kind :— 


*T is not alone my inky cloak, good mother, 
Nor customary suits of solemn black, 

Nor windy suspiration of forced breath, 

No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, 

Nor the dejected haviour of the visage, 
‘Together with all forms, modes, shows of grief, 
‘That can denote me truly. 


Now, if such declamation, for declamation it is, however noble, 
be allowable in a poet, whose genius is so far removed from pom- 
pousness or pretence, much more is it allowable in an orator, whose 
very province it is to put forth words to the best advantage he can. 
Cicero has nothing more redundant in any part of his writings 
than these passages from Shakespeare. No lover then at least of 
Shakespeare may fairly accuse Cicero of gorgeousness of phrase- 
ology or diffuseness of style. Nor will any sound critic be 
tempted to do so. As a certain unaffected neatness and propriety 
and grace of diction may be required of any author who lays claim 
to be a classic, for the same reason that a certain attention to dress 
is expected of every gentleman, so to Cicero may be allowed the 
privilege of the ‘os magna sonaturum,” of which the ancient critic 
speaks. His copious, majestic, musical flow of language, even if 
sometimes beyond what the subject-matter demands, is never out 
of keeping with the occasion or with the speaker. It is the expres- 
sion of lofty sentiments in lofty sentences, the “mens magna in 
corpore magno.” It is the development of the inner man. Cicero 
vividly realized the status of a Roman senator and statesman, and 
the “pride of place” of Rome, in all the grace and grandeur which 
attached to her; and he imbibed, and became, what he admired. 
As the exploits of Scipio or Pompey are the expression of this 
greatness in deed, so the language of Cicero is the expression of it 
in word. And, as the acts of the Roman ruler or soldier repre- 
sent to us, in a manner special to themselves, the characteristic 
magnanimity of the lords of the earth, so do the speeches or trea- 
tises of her accomplished orator bring it home to our imaginations 
as no other writing could do. Neither Livy, nor Tacitus, nor 
Terence, nor Seneca, nor Pliny, nor Quintilian, is an adequate 
spokesman for the Imperial City. They write Latin; Cicero writes 
Roman. 


THE IDEA OF A UNIVERSITY 2.43 


You will say that Cicero’s language is undeniably studied, but 
that Shakespeare’s is as undeniably natural and spontaneous; and 
that this is what is meant, when the Classics are accused of being 
mere artists of words. Here we are introduced to a further large 
question, which gives me the opportunity of anticipating a mis- 
apprehension of my meaning. I observe, then, that, not only is 
that lavish richness of style, which I have noticed in Shakespeare, 
justifiable on the principles which I have been laying down, but, 
what is less easy to receive, even elaborateness in composition is no 
mark of trick or artifice in an author. Undoubtedly the works 
of the Classics, particularly the Latin, are elaborate; they have 
cost a great deal of time, care, and trouble. “They have had many 
rough copies; I grant it. I grant also that there are writers of 
name, ancient and modern, who really are guilty of the absurdity 
of making sentences, as the very end of their literary labor. 
Such was Isocrates; such were some of the sophists; they were set 
on words, to the neglect of thoughts or things I cannot defend 
them. If I must give an English instance of this fault, much as 
I love and revere the personal character and intelligent vigor of 
Doctor Johnson, I cannot deny that his style often outruns the 
sense and the occasion, and is wanting in that simplicity which is 
the attribute of genius. Still, granting all this, I cannot grant, 
notwithstanding, that genius never need take pains,—that genius 
may not improve by practice,—that it never incurs failures, and 
succeeds the second time,—that it never finishes off at leisure what 
it has thrown off in the outline at a stroke. 

Take the instance of the painter or the sculptor; he has a con- 
ception in his mind which he wishes to represent in the medium 
of his art;—the Madonna and Child, or Innocence, or Fortitude, 
or some historical character or event. Do you mean to say he does 
not study his subject? does he not make sketches? does he not even 
call them “studies”? does he not call his workroom a studio? is he 
not ever designing, rejecting, adopting, correcting, perfecting? 
Are not the first attempts of Michael Angelo and Raffaelle extant, 
in the case of some of their most celebrated compositions? Will 
any one say that the Apollo Belvedere is not a conception patiently 
elaborated into its proper perfection? ‘These departments of 
taste are, according to the received notions of the world, the very 
province of genius, and yet we call them arts; they are the “Fine 


244 JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 


Arts.” Why may not that be true of literary composition which 
is true of painting, sculpture, architecture, and music? Why may 
not language be wrought as well as the clay of the modeller? why 
not words be worked up as well as colors? why should not skill 
in diction be simply subservient and instrumental to the great 
prototypal ideas which are the contemplation of a Plato or a Vir- 
gil? Our greatest poet tells us,— 


The poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, 

Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven, 
And, as imagination bodies forth 

The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen 

Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing 

A local habitation and a name. 


Now, is it wonderful that that pen of his should sometimes be 
at fault for a while,—that it should pause, write, erase, re-write, 
amend, complete, before he satisfies himself that his language has 
done justice to the conceptions which his mind’s eye contemplated ? 

In this point of view, doubtless, many or most writers are 
elaborate; and those certainly not the least whose style is furthest 
removed from ornament, being simple and natural, or vehement, or 
severely business-like and practical. Who so energetic and manly 
as Demosthenes? Yet he is said to have transcribed Thucydides 
many times over in the formation of his style. Who so gracefully 
natural as Herodotus? yet his very dialect is not his own, but 
chosen for the sake of the perfection of his narrative. Who ex- 
hibits such happy negligence as our own Addison? yet artistic 
fastidiousness was so notorious in his instance that the report has 
got abroad, truly or not, that he was too late in his issue of an 
important state-paper, from his habit of revision and recomposi- 
tion. Such great authors were working by a model which was 
before the eyes of their intellect, and they were laboring to say 
what they had to say, in such a way as would most exactly and 
suitably express it. It is not wonderful that other authors, whose 
style is not simple, should be instances of a familiar literary dili- 
gence. Virgil wished his #/neid to be burned, elaborate as is its 
composition, because he felt it needed more labor still, in order to 
make it perfect. The historian Gibbon in the last century is 
another instance in point. You must not suppose I am going to 


THE IDEA OF A UNIVERSITY 245 


recommend his style for imitation, any more than his principles; 
but I refer to him as the example of a writer feeling the task which 
lay before him, feeling that he had to bring out into words for 
the comprehension of his readers a great and complicated scene, 
and wishing that those words should be adequate to his undertak- 
ing. I think he wrote the first chapter of his History three times 
over; it was not that he corrected or improved the first copy; but 
he put his first essay, and then his second, aside—he recast his mat- 
ter, till he had hit the precise exhibition of it which he thought 
demanded by his subject. 

Now in all these instances, I wish you to observe, that what I 
have admitted about literary workmanship differs from the doc- 
trine which I am opposing in this,—that the mere dealer in words 
cares little or nothing for the subject which he is embellishing, but 
can paint and gild anything whatever to order; whereas the artist, 
whom I am acknowledging, has his great or rich visions before 
him, and his only aim is to bring out what he thinks or what he 
feels in a way adequate to the thing spoken of, and appropriate to 
the speaker. 


The illustration which I have been borrowing from the Fine 
Arts will enable me to go a step further. I have been showing 
the connection of the thought with the language in literary com- 
position; and in doing so I have exposed the unphilosophical no- 
tion, that the language was an extra which could be dispensed 
with, and provided to order according to the demand. But I have 
not yet brought out, what immediately follows from this, and 
which was the second point which I had to show, viz., that to be 
capable of easy translation is no test of the excellence of a compo- 
sition. If I must say what I think, I should lay down, with little 
hesitation, that the truth was almost the reverse of this doctrine. 
Nor are many words required to show it. Such a doctrine, as is 
contained in the passage of the author whom I quoted when I 
began, goes upon the assumption that one language is just like 
another language,—that every language has all the ideas, turns 
of thought, delicacies of expression, figures, associations, abstrac- 
tions, points of view, which every other language has. Now, as 
far as regards Science, it is true that all languages are pretty 
much alike for the purposes of Science; but even in this respect 


246 JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 


some are more suitable than others, which have to coin words, 
or to borrow them, in order to express scientific ideas. But if 
languages are not all equally adapted even to furnish symbols for 
those universal and eternal truths in which Science consists, how 
can they reasonably be expected to be all equally rich, equally 
forcible, equally musical, equally exact, equally happy in express- 
ing the idiosyncratic peculiarities of thought of some original and 
fertile mind, who has availed himself of one of them? A great 
author takes his native language, masters it, partly throws himself 
into it, partly moulds and adapts it, and pours out his multitude of 
ideas through the variously ramified and delicately minute chan- 
nels of expression which he has found or framed :—does it follow 
that this his personal presence (as it may be called) can forthwith 
be transferred to every other language under the sun? ‘Then 
may we reasonably maintain that Beethoven’s piano music is not 
really beautiful, because it cannot be played on the hurdy-gurdy. 
Were not this astonishing doctrine maintained by persons far 
superior to the writer whom I have selected for animadversion, I 
should find it difficult to be patient under a gratuitous extrava- 
gance. It seems that a really great author must admit of transla- 
tion, and that we have a test of his excellence when he reads to 
advantage in a foreign language as well as in his own. ‘Then 
Shakespeare is a genius because he can be translated into German, 
and not a genius because he cannot be translated into French. 
Then the multiplication-table is the most gifted of all conceivable 
compositions, because it loses nothing by translation, and can 
hardly be said to belong to any one language whatever. Whereas 
I should rather have conceived that, in proportion as ideas are 
novel and recondite, they would be difficult to put into words, and 
that the very fact of their having insinuated themselves into one 
language would diminish the chance of that happy accident being 
repeated in another. In the language of savages you can hardly 
express any idea or act of the intellect at all: is the tongue of the 
Hottentot or Esquimaux to be made the measure of the genius of 
Plato, Pindar, Tacitus, St. Jerome, Dante, or Cervantes? 

Let us recur, I say, to the illustration of the Fine Arts. I sup- 
pose you can express ideas in painting which you cannot express 
in sculpture; and the more an artist is of a painter, the less he is 
likely to be of a sculptor. The more he commits his genius to the 


THE IDEA OF A UNIVERSITY 247 


methods and conditions of his own art, the less he will be able to 
throw himself into the circumstances of another. Is the genius of 
Fra Angelico, of Francia, or of Raffaelle disparaged by the fact 
that he was able to do that in colors which no man that ever 
lived, which no Angel, could achieve in wood? Each of the Fine 
Arts has its own subject-matter; from the nature of the case you 
can do in one what you cannot do in another; you can do in paint- 
ing what you cannot do in carving; you can do in oils what you 
cannot do in fresco; you can do in marble what you cannot do in 
ivory; you can do in wax what you cannot do in bronze. ‘Then, 
I repeat, applying this to the case of languages, why should not 
genius be able to do in Greek what it cannot do in Latin? and 
why are its Greek and Latin works defective because they will not 
turn into English? “That genius, of which we are speaking, did 
not make English; it did not make all languages, present, past, 
and future; it did not make the laws of any language: why is it to 
be judged of by that in which it had no part, over which it has no 
control ? 


And now we are naturally brought on to our third point, which 
is on the characteristics of Holy Scripture as compared with pro- 
fane literature. Hitherto we have been concerned with the doc- 
trines of these writers, viz. that style is an extra, that it is a mere 
artifice, and that hence it cannot be translated; now we come to 
their fact, viz. that Scripture has no such artificial style, and that 
Scripture can easily be translated. Surely their fact is as untena- 
ble as their doctrine. 

Scripture easy of translation! then why have there been so few 
good translators? why is it that there has been such great difficulty 
in combining the two necessary qualities, fidelity to the original 
and purity in the adopted vernacular? why is it that the authorized 
versions of the Church are often so inferior to the original as com- 
positions, except that the Church is bound above all things to see 
that the version is doctrinally correct, and in a difficult problem 
is obliged to put up with defects in what is of secondary import- 
ance, provided she secure what is of first? If it were so easy to 
transfer the beauty of the original to the copy, she would not have 
been content with her received version in various languages which 
could be named, 


248 JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 


And then in the next place, Scripture not elaborate! Scripture 
not ornamented in diction, and musical in cadence! Why, con- 
sider the Epistle to the Hebrews—where is there in the Classics 
any composition more carefully, more artificially written? Con- 
sider the book of Job—is it not a sacred drama, as artistic, as per- 
fect, as any Greek tragedy of Sophocles or Euripides? Consider 
the Psalter—are there no ornaments, no rhythm, no studied 
cadences, no responsive members, in that divinely beautiful book? 
And is it not hard to understand? are not the Prophets hard to 
understand? is not St. Paul hard to understand? Who can say 
that these are popular compositions? who can say that they are 
level at first reading withthe understandings of the multitude? 

That there are portions indeed of the inspired volume more 
sacred and sublime passages, as, for instance, parts of the Gospels, 
I grant at once; but this does not militate against the doctrine I 
have been laying down. Recollect, Gentlemen, my distinction 
when I began. I have said Literature is one thing, and that Sci- 
ence is another; that Literature has to do with ideas, and Science 
with realities; that Literature is of a personal character, that 
Science treats of what is universal and eternal. In proportion, 
then, as Scripture excludes the personal coloring of its writers, 
and rises into the region of pure and mere inspiration, when it 
ceases in any sense to be the writing of man, of St. Paul or St. 
John, of Moses or Isaias, then it comes to belong to Science, not 
Literature. “Then it conveys the things of heaven, unseen verities, 
divine manifestations, and them alone—not the ideas, the feelings, 
the aspirations, of its human instruments, who, for all that they 
were inspired and infallible, did not cease to be men. St. Paul’s 
epistles, then, I consider to be literature in a real and true sense, as 
personal as rich in reflection and emotion, as Demosthenes or 
Euripides; and, without ceasing to be revelations of objective 
truth, they are expressions of the subjective notwithstanding. On 
the other hand, portions of the Gospels, of the book of Genesis, and 
other passages of the Sacred Volume, are of the nature of Science. 
Such is the beginning of St. John’s Gospel, which we read at the 
end of Mass. Such is the Creed. I mean, passages such as these 
are the mere enunciation of eternal things, without (so to say) 
the medium of any human mind transmitting them to us. ‘The 
words used have the grandeur, the majesty, the calm, unimpas- 


THE IDEA OF A UNIVERSITY 249 


sioned beauty of Science; they are in no sense Literature, they are 
in no sense personal ; and therefore they are easy to apprehend, and 
easy to translate. 

Did time admit I could show you parallel instances of what I 
am speaking of in the Classics, inferior to the inspired word in 
proportion as the subject-matter of the classical authors is im- 
mensely inferior to the subjects treated of in Scripture—but 
parallel, inasmuch as the classical author or speaker ceases for the 
moment to have to do with Literature, as speaking of things ob- 
jectively, and rises to the serene sublimity of Science. But I 
should be carried too far if I began. 

I shall then merely sum up what I have said, and come to a con- 
clusion. Reverting, then, to my original question, what is the 
meaning of Letters, as contained, Gentlemen, in the designation of 
your Faculty, I have answered, that by Letters or Literature is 
meant the expression of thought in language, where by “thought” 
I mean the ideas, feelings, views, reasonings, and other operations 
of the human mind. And the Art of Letters is the method by 
which a speaker or writer brings out in words, worthy of his sub- 
ject, and sufficient for his audience or readers, the thoughts which 
impress him. Literature, then, is of a personal character; it con- 
sists in the enunciations and teachings of those who have a right to 
speak as representatives of their kind, and in whose words their 
brethren find an interpretation of their own sentiments, a record of 
their own experience, and a suggestion for their own judgments. 
A great author, Gentlemen, is not one who merely has a copia 
verborum, whether in prose or verse, and can, as it were, turn on 
at his will any number of splendid phrases and swelling sentences ; 
but he is one who has something to say and knows how to say it. 
I do not claim for him, as such, any great depth of thought, or 
breadth of view, or philosophy, or sagacity, or knowledge of 
human nature, or experience of human life, though these addi- 
tional gifts he may have, and the more he has of them the greater 
he is; but I ascribe to him, as his characteristic gift, in a large 
sense the faculty of Expression. He is master of the twofold 
Logos, the thought and the word, distinct, but inseparable from 
each other. He may, if so be, elaborate his compositions, or he 
may pour out his improvisations, but in either case he has but one 
aim, which he keeps steadily before him, and is conscientious and 


250 JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 


single-minded in fulfilling. That aim is to give forth what he has 
within him; and from his very earnestness it comes to pass that, 
whatever be the splendor of his diction or the harmony of his 
periods, he has with him the charm of an incommunicable simpli- 
city. Whatever be his subject, high or low, he treats it suitably 
and for its own sake. If he is a poet, “‘nil molitur inepte.”’ If he 
is an orator, then too he speaks, not only “‘distincte”’ and “‘splen- 
dide,” but also “afte.” His page is the lucid mirror of his mind 
and life— 
Quo fit, ut omnis 


Votiva pateat veluti descripta tabella 
Vita senis. 


He writes passionately, because he feels keenly; forcibly, because 
he conceives vividly; he sees too clearly to be vague; he is too seri- 
ous to be otiose; he can analyze his subject, and therefore he is 
rich; he embraces it as a whole and in its parts, and therefore he is 
consistent; he has a firm hold of it, and therefore he is luminous. 
When his imagination wells up, it overflows in ornament; when 
his heart is touched, it thrills along his verse. He always has the 
right word for the right idea, and never a word too much. If he 
is brief, it is because few words suffice; when he is lavish of them, 
still each word has its mark, and aids, not embarrasses, the vigor- 
ous march of his elocution. He expresses what all feel, but all 
cannot say; and his sayings pass into proverbs among his people, 
and his phrases become household words and idioms of their daily 
speech, which is tessellated with the rich fragments of his language, 
as we see in foreign lands the marbles of Roman grandeur worked 
into the walls and pavements of modern palaces. 

Such preéminently is Shakespeare among ourselves; such pre- 
eminently Virgil among the Latins; such in their degree are all 
those writers who in every nation go by the name of Classics. To 
particular nations they are necessarily attached from the circum- 
stance of the variety of tongues, and the peculiarities of each; but 
so far they have a catholic and ecumenical character, that what 
they express is common to the whole race of man, and they alone 
are able to express it. 


If then the power of speech is a gift as great as any that can be 
named,—if the origin of language is by many philosophers even 


THE IDEA OF A UNIVERSITY 251 


‘considered to be nothing short of divine,—if by means of words the 
secrets of the heart are brought to light, pain of soul is relieved, 
hidden grief is carried off, sympathy conveyed, counsel imparted, 
experience recorded, and wisdom perpetrated,—if by great authors 
the many are drawn up into unity, national character is fixed, a 
people speaks, the past and the future, the East and the West are 
brought into communication with each other,—if such men are, 
in a word, the spokesmen and prophets of the human family,—it 
will not answer to make light of Literature or to neglect its study; 
rather we may be sure that, in proportion as we master it in what- 
ever language, and imbibe its spirit, we shall ourselves become in 
our own measure the ministers of like benefits to others, be they 
many or few, be they in the obscurer or the more distinguished 
walks of life,—who are united to us by social ties, and are within 
the sphere of our personal influence. ; 


NICHOLAS WISEMAN 
1802——1 865 


Nicholas Patrick Wiseman, cardinal, orator, and author, was 
born of English parents in Seville in 1802. His father dying when 
the boy was quite young, a brother took him to Ireland, where he 
began his education at Waterford. He eventually entered Ushaw 
College in Durham. Here deciding to become a priest, he was sent 
to the English College at Rome. In 1825 he was ordained but re- 
mained in Rome to act as vice-rector of the English College. 

In 1828 he undertook a series of sermons to English visitors to 
Rome and in that same year, owing perhaps in no small degree to 
his growing reputation as an Orientalist, in addition to his splendid 
talents as an executive, he was made rector of the College, a posi- 
tion in which he came finally to meet almost all the leading English- 
men of his day. 

The idea of Catholic unity becoming more and more interesting to 
him, he entered with spirit into every movement having that unity 
as its aim; hence, upon the appearance of Tract 90, he began a 
correspondence with Newman which led to a lasting friendship be- 
tween the two men who were to have such an influence upon the 
position of the Church in England. 

In 1850 he was created cardinal and, because of his work in con- 
nection with the establishment of the English hierarchy, was assigned 


269 NICHOLAS WISEMAN 


to England. In this position, then, during the remaining fifteen years 
of his life he labored to establish the Church in England upon the 
footing which was its right. As an orator, author, and ecclesiastical 
statesman, he succeeded in winning for himself such a place in the 
affections of his countrymen that his death, in 1865, was viewed by 
the whole population as something of a national calamity. 

His most famous book is Fabiola, a novel of the catacombs, which 
he wrote in Rome in 1854. 


From FABIOLA 
A TALK WITH THE READER 


E WILL take advantage of the holiday which Rome 
is enjoying, sending out its inhabitants to the neighbor- 
ing hills, or to the whole line of seacoast from Genoa to 
Paestum, for amusement on land and water: and, in a merely 
didactic way, endeavor to communicate to our reader some infor- 
mation which may throw light on what we have already written, 
and prepare him for what will follow. 

From the very compressed form in which the early history of 
the Church is generally studied, and from the unchronological 
arrangement of the saints’ biographies, as we usually read them, 
we may easily be led to an erroneous idea of the taste of our first 
Christian ancestors. “This may happen in two different ways. 

We may come to imagine, that during the first three centuries 
the Church was suffering, unrespited, under active persecution; 
that the faithful worshipped in fear and trembling, and almost 
lived in the catacombs; that bare existence, with scarcely an oppor- 
tunity for outward development or inward organization, none for 
splendor, was all that religion could enjoy; that, in fine, it was a 
period of conflict and of tribulation, without an interval of peace 
or consolation. On the other hand, we may suppose, that those 
three centuries were divided into epochs by ten distinct persecu- 
tions, some of the longer and some of the shorter duration, but 
definitely separated from one another by breathing times of com- 
plete rest. 

Either of these views is erroneous; and we desire to state more 
accurately the real conditions of the Christian Church under the 
various circumstances of the most pregnant portion of her history. 






FABIOLA 2.53 


When once persecution had broken loose upon the Church, it 
may be said never entirely to have relaxed its hold, till her final 
pacification under Constantine. An edict of persecution once 
issued by an emperor was seldom recalled; and though the rigor 
of its enforcement might gradually relax or cease, through the 
accession of a milder ruler, still it never became completely a dead 
letter, but was a dangerous weapon in the hands of a cruel or 
bigoted governor of a city or province. Hence, in the intervals 
between the greater general persecution ordered by a new decree, 
we find many martyrs, who owed their crowns either to popular 
fury or to the hatred of Christianity in local rulers. Hence also 
we read of a bitter persecution being carried on in one part of the 
empire while other portions enjoyed complete peace. 

Perhaps a few examples of the various phases of persecution 
will illustrate the real relations of the primitive Church with the 
State better than mere descriptions; and the more learned reader 
can pass over this digression, or he must have the patience to hear 
repeated, what he is so familiar with, that it will seem common- 
place. 

Trajan was by no means one of the cruel emperors; on the con- 
trary, he was habitually just and merciful. Yet, though he pub- 
lished no new edicts against the Christians, many noble martyrs— 
amongst them St. Ignatius, bishop of Antioch, at Rome, and St. 
Simeon at Jerusalem—glorified their Lord in his reign. Indeed, 
when Pliny the younger consulted him on the manner in which he 
should deal with Christians, who might be brought before him as 
governor of Bithynia, the emperor gave him a rule which exhibits 
the lowest standard of justice; that they were not to be sought 
out; but if accused, they were to be punished. Adrian, who issued 
no decree of persecution, gave a similar reply to a similar question 
from Serenius Granianus, proconsul of Asia. And under him, 
too, and even by his own order, cruel martyrdom was suffered by 
the intrepid Symphorosa, and her seven sons at JTibur, or Jivoli. 
A beautiful inscription found in the catacombs mentions Marius, a 
young officer, who shed his blood for Christ under this emperor. 
Indeed, St. Justin, Martyr, the great apologist of Christianity, in- 
forms us that he owed his conversion to the constancy of the mar- 
tyrs under this emperor. 

In like manner, before the Emperor Septimus Severus had pub- 


254 NICHOLAS WISEMAN 


lished his persecuting edicts, many Christians had suffered tor- 
ments and death. Such were the celebrated martyrs of Scillita in 
Africa, and SS. Perpetua and Felicitas, with their companions: 
the Acts of whose martyrdom, containing the diary of the first 
noble lady, twenty years of age, brought down by herself to the 
eve of her death, form one of the most touching and exquisitely 
beautiful documents preserved to us from the ancient Church. 

Irom these historical facts it will be evident, that while there 
was from time to time a more active, severe, and general persecu- 
tion of the Christian name all through the empire, there were par- 
tial and local cessations, and sometimes even a general suspension, 
of its rigor. An occurrence of this sort has secured for us most 
interesting information connected with our subject. When the 
persecution of Severus had relaxed in other parts, it happened that 
Scapula, proconsul of Africa, prolonged it in his province with 
unrelenting cruelty. He had condemned, among others, Mavilus 
of Adrumetum to be devoured by beasts, when he was seized with 
a severe illness. ‘Tertullian, the oldest Christian Latin writer, 
addressed a letter to him, in which he bids him take warning from 
this visitation, and repent of his crimes; reminding him of many 
judgments which had befallen cruel judges of the Christians, in 
various parts of the world. Yet such was the charity of those 
pious Christians, that they were offering up earnest prayers for 
their enemy’s recovery! 

He then goes on to tell him, that he may very well fulfill his 
duties without practicing cruelty, by acting as other magistrates 
had done. For instance, Cincius Severus suggested to the accused 
the answers they should make, to be acquitted. Vespronius Can- 
didus dismissed a Christian, on the ground that his condemnation 
would encourage tumults. Asper, seeing one ready to yield upon 
the application of slight torments, would not press him further; 
and expressed regret that such a case should have been brought 
before him. Prudens, on reading an act of accusation, declared 
the title informal, because calumnious, and tore it up. 

We thus see how much might depend upon the temper, and per- 
haps the tendencies, of governors and judges, in the enforcing even 
of imperial edicts of persecution. And St. Ambrose tells us that 
some governors boasted that they had brought from their provinces 
their swords unstained with blood (incruentos enses). 


FABIOLA 255 


We can thus easily understand how, at any particular time, a 
savage persecution might rage in Gaul, or Africa, or Asia, while 
the main part of the Church was enjoying peace. But Rome was 
undoubtedly the place most subject to frequent outbreaks of the 
hostile spirit ; so that it might be considered as the privilege of its 
pontiffs, during the first three centuries, to bear the witness of 
blood to the faith which they taught. To be elected pope was 
equivalent to being promoted to martyrdom. 

At the period of our narrative, the Church was in one of those 
longer intervals of comparative peace, which gave opportunity for 
great development. From the death of Valerian in 268, there had 
been no new formal persecutions, though the interval is glorified 
by many noble martyrdoms. During such periods, the Christians 
were able to carry out their religious system with completeness, 
and even with splendor. The city was divided into districts or 
parishes, each having its title, or church, served by priests, deacons, 
and inferior ministers. “Ihe poor were supported, the sick visited, 
catechumens instructed; the Sacraments were administered, daily 
worship was practised, and the penitential canons were enforced 
by the clergy of each title; and collections were made for those 
purposes, and others connected with religious charity, and its con- 
sequence, hospitality. It is recorded, that in 250, during the pon- 
tificate of Cornelius, there were in Rome forty-six priests, a hun- 
dred and fifty-four inferior ministers, who were supported by the 
alms of the faithful, together with fifteen hundred poor. ‘This 
number of the priests pretty nearly corresponds to that of the titles 
which St. Optatus tells us there were in Rome. 

Although the tombs of the martyrs in the catacombs continued 
to be objects of devotion during these more peaceful intervals, and 
these asylums of the persecuted were kept in order and repair, they 
did not then serve for the ordinary places of worship. ‘The 
churches to which we have already alluded were often public, 
large, and even splendid; and heathens used to be present at the 
sermons delivered in them, and such portions of the liturgy as were 
open to catechumens. But generally they were in private houses, 
probably made out of the large halls, or triclinia, which the nobler 
mansions contained. ‘Thus we know that many of the titles in 
Rome were originally of that character. Tertullian mentions 
Christian cemeteries under a name and with circumstances, which 


256 NICHOLAS WISEMAN 


show that they were above ground, for he compares them to 
threshing-floors, which were necessarily exposed to the air. 

A custom of ancient Roman life will remove any objection 
which may arise, as to how considerable multitudes could assemble 
in these places, without attracting attention, and consequently per- 
secution. It was usual for what may be called a levée to be held 
every morning by the rich, attended by dependents, or clients, and 
messengers from their friends, either slaves or freedmen, some of 
whom were admitted into the inner court, to the master’s presence, 
while others only presented themselves and were dismissed. Hun- 
dreds might thus go in and out of a great house, in addition to the 
crowd of domestic slaves, tradespeople, and others who had access 
to it, through the principal or the back entrance of the house, and 
little or no notice would be taken of the circumstance. 

There is another important phenomenon in the social life of the 
early Christians, which one would hardly know how to believe, 
were not evidence of it brought before us in the most authentic 
acts of the martyrs, and in ecclesiastical history. It is, the con- 
cealment which they contrived to practise. No doubt can be en- 
tertained, that persons moving in the highest society, occupying 
conspicuous public situations, and being near the persons of the 
emperors, were Christians and yet were not suspected to be such 
by their most intimate heathen friends. Nay, cases occurred, 
where the nearest relations were kept in total ignorance on this 
subject. No lie, no dissembling, no action especially inconsistent 
with Christian morality or Christian truth, was ever permitted 
to ensure such secrecy. But every precaution compatible with 
complete truth was taken to conceal Christianity from the public 
eye. 

However necessary this prudential course might be to prevent 
any wanton persecution, its consequences fell often heavily upon 
those who held it. The heathen world, the world of power, of 
influence, and of state, the world which made laws as best suited 
it, and executed them, the world that loved earthly prosperity and 
hated faith, felt itself surrounded, filled, compenetrated by a mys- 
terious system, which spread, no one could see how, and exercised 
an influence derived no one knew whence. Families were 
startled at finding a son or daughter to have embraced this new 
law, with which they were not aware they had been in contact, 


FABIOLA 257 


and which, in their heated fancies and popular views, they consid- 
ered stupid, grovelling, and anti-social. Hence the hatred of 
Christianity was political as well as religious; the system was con- 
sidered as un-Roman, as having an interest opposed to the extension 
and prosperity of the empire, and as obeying an unseen and spirit- 
ual power. The Christians were pronounced irreligiosi in Cae- 
sares, ‘disloyal to the emperors,” and that was enough. Hence 
their security and peace depended much upon the state of popular 
feeling; when any demagogue or fanatic could succeed in rousing 
this, neither their denial of the charges brought against them, nor 
their peaceful demeanor, nor the claims of civilized life, could 
suffice to screen them from such measures of persecution as could 
be safely urged against them. 


NEAGVIsE eC eA Rone INT Go RV UUATING GAY IN 
1803—1849 


James Clarence Mangan, clerk, journalist, and poet, was born in 
Dublin in 1803. He attended school for a short time at Saul’s 
Court, but, his family being very poor, he was forced to go to work 
at an early age. 

For ten years he worked as a clerk. In 1831, however, he con- 
tributed some verses to a privately printed journal, and from that 
time was launched as an author. At various times he became con- 
nected, either as staff writer or as contributor, with journals like 
The United Irishman, The Dublin University Magazine, The Na- 
tion, Duffy's Irish Catholic Magazine, and The Irish Tribune, but 
every connection was inevitably terminated because of his irregular 
habits. 

His work falls into three classes: translations from the German 
and the Irish; grotesque critical articles and informal essays; and 
poetry. In all, he is said to have written some 850 poems. “There 
is about his verse an unevenness of quality that renders a considerable 
portion of it almost valueless. Some of it, none the less, the Dark 
Rosateen in particular, is flooded with the full spirit of romantic 
Ireland; the literature would be less luminous without it. 

He died in 1849, his intemperate life making him an easy victim 
of the cholera scourge which swept Dublin during that year. 


258 


JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN 


MY DARK ROSALEEN 


O my Dark Rosaleen, 

Do not sigh, do not weep! 

The priests are on the ocean green, 

They march along the deep. 

There’s wine from the royal Pope 

Upon the ocean green; 

And Spanish, ale shall give you hope, 
My Dark Rosaleen! 

My own Rosaleen! 

Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope, 
Shall give you health, and help, and hope, 
My Dark Rosaleen! 


Over hills and thro’ dales, 

Have I roamed for your sake; 

All yesterday I sailed with sails 

On river and on lake. 

The Erne at its highest flood 

I dashed across unseen, 

For there was lightning in my blood, 
My Dark Rosaleen! 

My own Rosaleen! 

O there was lightning in my blood, 
Red lightning lightened thro’ my blood 
My Dark Rosaleen! 


All day long, in unrest, 

To and fro, do I move. 

The very soul within my breast 

Is wasted for you, love! 

The heart in my bosom faints 

To think of you, my queen, 

My life of life, my saint of saints, 
My Dark Rosaleen! 

My own Rosaleen! 

To hear your sweet and sad complaints, 
My life, my love, my saint of saints, 


My Dark Rosaleen! 


IO 


15 


20 


25 


30 


35 


MY DARK ROSALEEN 


Woe and pain, pain and woe, 

Are my lot, night and noon, 

To see your bright face clouded so, 
Like to the mournful moon. 

But yet will I rear your throne 
Again in golden sheen; 

Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone, 
My Dark Rosaleen! 

My own Rosaleen! 

Tis you shall have the golden throne, 
Tis you shall reign, and reign alone, 


My Dark Rosaleen! 


Over dews, over sands, 

Will I fly for your weal: 

Your holy delicate white hands 
Shall girdle me with steel. 

At home in your emerald bowers, 
From morning’s dawn till e’en, 


You'll pray for me, my flower of flowers, 


My Dark Rosaleen! 
My fond Rosaleen! 


You'll think of me thro’ daylight hours, 
My virgin flower, my flower of flowers, 


Mv Dark Rosaleen! 


I could scale the blue air, 

I could plough the high hills, 

O I could kneel all night in prayer, 
To heal your many ills! 

And one beamy smile from you 
Would float like light between 

My toils and me, my own, my true, 
My Dark Rosaleen! 

My fond Rosaleen! 

Would give me life and soul anew, 
A second life, a soul anew, 


My Dark Rosaleen! 


mote 


40 


45 


50 


55 


60 


65 


70 


260 JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN 


O the Erne shall run red 

With reluctance of blood, 

The earth shall rock beneath our tread, 
And flames wrap hill and wood, 

And gun-peal and slogan-cry 

Wake many a glen serene, 

Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die, 
My Dark Rosaleen! 

My own Rosaleen! 

The Judgment Hour must first be nigh, 
Ere you can fade, ere you can die, 


My Dark Rosaleen! 


THE GERALDINE’S DAUGHTER 


A BEAUTY all stainless, a pearl of a maiden 

Has plunged me in trouble, and wounded my heart. 
With sorrow and gloom is my soul overladen, 

An anguish is there, that will never depart. 

I could voyage to Egypt across the deep water 

Nor care about bidding dear Eiré farewell, 

So I only might gaze on the Geraldine’s daughter, 
And sit by her side in some green pleasant dell! 


Her curling locks wave round her figure of lightness, 
All dazzling and long, like the purest of gold; 

Her blue eyes resemble twin stars in their brightness, 
And her brow is like marble or wax to behold. 

‘The radiance of heaven illumines her features 

Where the snows and the rose have erected their throne; 
It would seem that the sun had forgotten all creatures, 
To shine on the Geraldine’s daughter alone. 


Her bosom is swan-white, her waist smooth and slender, 
Her speech is like music, so sweet and so free. 

The feelings that glow in her noble heart lend her 

A mien and a majesty lovely to see. 


75 


80 


IO 


15 


20 


ELLEN BAWN 


Her lips, red as berries, but riper than any, 
Would kiss away even a sorrow like mine! 

No wonder such heroes and noblemen many 
Should cross the blue ocean to kneel at her shrine. 


She is sprung from the Geraldine race, the great Grecians, 


Niece of Mileadh’s sons of the Valorous Bands, 
Those heroes, the seed of the olden Phoenicians, 


Though now trodden down, without fame, without lands; 


Of her ancestors flourished the Barrys and Poers, 
‘To the Lords of Bunratty she too is allied, 

And not a proud noble near Cashel’s high towers 
But is kin to this maiden, the Geraldine’s pride. 


Of Saxon or Gael there is none to excel in 
Her wisdom, her features, her figure, this fair; 
In all she surpasses the far-famous Helen, 


Whose beauty drove thousands to death and despair. 


Whoe’er could but gaze on her aspect so noble 
Would feel from thenceforward all anguish depart; 
Yet for me ’tis, alas, my worst woe and my trouble 
That her image must always abide in my heart! 


ELLEN BAWN 


ELLEN Bawn, O Ellen Bawn, you darling, darling dear, you 
Sit awhile beside me here; I’ll die unless I’m near you! 

Tis for you I’d swim the Suir and breast the Shannon’s waters; 
For, Ellen dear, you’ve not your peer in Galway’s blooming 


daughters! 


Had I Limerick’s gems and gold at will to meet and measure, 

Were Loughrea’s abundance mine, and all Portumna’s treasure, 
These might lure me, might ensure me many and many a new love, 
But ah! no bride could pay your tribe for one like you, my true 


love! 


261 


25 


30 


35 


40 


5 


262 JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN 


Blessings be on Connaught! That’s the place for sport and raking; 
Blessings, too, my love, on you, a-sleeping and awaking! 10 
I’d have met you, dearest Ellen, when the sun went under, 

But, woe! the flooding Shannon broke across my path in thunder. 


Ellen! Id give all the deer in Limerick’s parks and arbors, 
Aye, and all the ships that rode last year in Munster harbors, 
Could I blot from time the hour I first became your lover; 15 
For O! you’ve given my heart a wound it never can recover! 


Were to God that in the sod my corpse to-night were lying, 

And the wild birds wheeling o’er it, and the winds a-sighing! 
Since your cruel mother and your kindred choose to sever 

Two hearts thatLove would blend in one for ever and for ever. 20 


THE WOMAN OF THREE COWS 


O woman of three cows, agragh! don’t let your tongue thus rattle: 
O don’t be saucy, don’t be stiff, because you may have cattle. 
I’ve seen (and here’s my hand to you, I only say what’s true!) 

A many a one with twice your stock not half so proud as you. 


Good luck to you, don’t scorn the poor, and don’t be their de- 
spiser, 5 

For worldly wealth soon melts away, and cheats the very miser. 

And death soon strips the proudest wreath from haughty human 
brows: 

Then don’t be stiff, and don’t be proud, good woman of three 
cows! 


See where Momonia’s heroes lie, proud Owen More’s descendants! 

*Tis they that won the glorious name and had the grand attend- 
ants: 10 

If they were forced to bow to fate, as every mortal bows, 

Can you be proud, can you be stiff, my woman of three cows? 


‘The brave sons of the Lord of Clare, they left the land to mourn- 
ing, 
Mavrone! for they were banished, with no hope of their returning: 


THE WOMAN OF THREE COWS 263 


Who knows in what abodes of want those youths were driven to 
house ? 15 
Yet you can give yourself these airs, O woman of three cows! 


O think of Donnell of the Ships, the chief of whom nothing 
daunted! 

See how he fell in distant Spain, unchronicled, unchanted. 

He sleeps, the great O’Sullivan, whom thunder cannot rouse: 

Then ask yourself, should you be proud, good woman of three 
cows! 20 


O’Ruark, Maguire, those souls of fire whose names are shrined 


in story, 

Think how their high achievements once made Erin’s greatest 
glory; 

Yet now their bones lie mouldering under weeds and cypress 
boughs, 


And so, for all your pride, will yours, O woman of three cows. 


The O’Carrolls, also, famed when fame was only for the 
boldest, 25 

Rest in forgotten sepulchers with Erin’s best and oldest; 

Yet who so great as they of yore in battle and carouse? 

Just think of that, and hide your head, good woman of three cows. 


Your neighbor’s poor, and you, it seems, are big with vain ideas, 
Because, inagh, you’ve got three cows: one more, I see, than she 
has! 30 
That tongue of yours wags more, at times, than charity allows: 
But if you’re strong, be merciful, great woman of three cows! 


AVRAN 


Now there you go: you still, of course, keep up your scornful 
bearing; 

And I’m too poor to hinder you. But, by the cloak I’m wearing, 

If I had but four cows myself, even though you were my 
spouse, 35 

I’d thwack you well to cure your pride, my woman of three cows! 


264 FRANCIS SYLVESTER MAHONY 


FiROA NG SoS TOV Sai! Ri wiViGAR EV OuNie 
1804——1866 


Francis Mahony (Father Prout), member of the Society of Jesus, 
journalist, and poet, was born at Cork in 1804. He was educated at 
Clongowes College in Ireland and at St. Acheul’s in France. In 
1821 he entered the Jesuit novitiate in Paris, and two years later he 
went to Rome to continue his studies. 

Although he continued until the day of his death to practice his 
religion strictly, he did not remain directly a member of the clergy, 
being for the most part engaged in literary work in connection with 
various magazines. His best known works are two poems, The 
Beils of Shandon, and The Mistletoe, and a volume of sketches en- 
titled The Rogueries of Tom Moore, all written under the pen-name 
of “Father Prout.” 

He died in Paris in 1866. 


THE MISTLETOE 


A PROPHET sat in the Temple gate, 
And he spoke each passer by, 
In thrilling tones—-with words of weight, 
And fire in his rolling eye! 
“Pause thee, believing Jew! 5 
Nor make one step beyond 
Until thy heart hath conned 
The mystery of this wand.” 
And a rod from his robe he drew ;— 
"Twas a withered bough 10 
Torn long ago | 
From the trunk on which it grew. 
But the branch long torn 
Showed a bud new born, 
That had blossomed there anew. 15 
‘That wand was “Jesse’s rod,” 
Symbol, ’tis said, 
Of Her, the Maid— 
Yet Mother of our God/ 


THE MISTLETOE 


A priest of Egypt sat meanwhile 
Beneath his palm tree hid, 

On the sacred brink of the flowing Nile, 
And there saw mirrored, ’mid 

Tall obelisk and shadowy pile 
Of ponderous pyramid, 

One lowly, lovely, Lotus plant, 
Pale orphan of the flood ; 

And long did that aged hierophant 
Gaze on that beauteous bud; 

For well he thought as he saw it float 
O’er the waste of waters wild, 

On the long remembered cradle boat, 
Of the wondrous Hebrew child :— 

Nor was that lowly lotus dumb 

Of a mightier Infant still, to come, 
If mystic skiff 
And hieroglyph 

Speak aught in Luxor’s catacomb. 


A GREEK sat on Colonna’s cape, 
In his lofty thoughts alone, 
And a volume lay on Plato’s lap, 
For he was that lonely one; 
And oft as the sage 
Gazed o’er the page 

His forehead radiant grew; 
For in Wisdom’s womb, 
Of the world to come 

A vision blest his view. 

He broached that theme in the Academe 
Of the teachful olive grove— 
And a chosen few that secret knew 

In the Porch’s dim alcove. 


A SYBIL sat in Cumae’s cave 
In the hour of infant Rome, 

And her vigil kept and her warning gave 
Of the Holy One to come. 


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FRANCIS SYLVESTER MAHONY 


Twas she who culled the hallowed branch, 


And silent took the helm, 
When he, the Founder-Sire, would launch 
His bark o’er Hades’ realm: 
But chief she poured her vestal soul 
Through many a bright illumined scroll, 
By priest and sage, 
Of an after age, 
Conned in the lofty Capitol. 


A DRUD stood in the dark oak wood 
Of a distant northern land, 

And he seemed to hold a sickle of gold 
In the grasp of his withered hand; 

And he moved him slowly round the girth 
Of an aged oak to see 

If an orphan plant of wondrous birth 
Had clung to the old oak tree. 

And anon he knelt, and from his belt 
Unloosened his golden blade, 

Then rose and culled the Mistletoe 
Under the woodland shade. 


O blessed bough, meet emblem thou 
Of all dark Egypt knew. 

Of all foretold to the wise of old, 
To Roman, Greek, and Jew. 

And long, God grant, time-honored plant, 
Live we to see thee hung 

In cottage small, as in baron’s hall, 
Banner and shield among! 

Thus fitly rule the mirth of Yule 
Aloft in thy place of pride, 


Still usher forth, in each land of the North, 


The Solemn Christmas Tide! 


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THE SHANDON BELLS 


THE SHANDON BELLS 


Sabbata Pango, 
Funera Plango, 
Solemnia Clango 


WITH deep affection 
And recollection 
I often think of 

Those Shandon bells, 
Whose sounds so wild would, 
In the days of childhood, 
Fling round my cradle 

Their magic spells. 
On this I ponder 
Where’er I wander, 

And thus grow fonder, 
Sweet Cork, of thee; 
With thy bells of Shandon, 
That sound so grand on 

The pleasant waters 


Of the river Lee. 


I’ve heard bells chiming 
Full many a clime in, 
Tolling sublime in 

Cathedral shrine, 
While at a glibe rate 
Brass tongues would vibrate— 
But all their music 

Spoke naught like thine; 
For memory dwelling 
On each proud swelling 
Of the belfry knelling 

Its bold notes free, 
Made the bells of Shandon 
Sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters 


Of the river Lee. 


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FRANCIS SYLVESTER MAHONY 


I’ve heard bells rolling 
Old ‘“‘Adrian’s Mole’’ in, 
Their thunder rolling 
From the Vatican, 
And cymbals glorious 
Swinging uproarious 
In the gorgeous turrets 
Of Notre Dame; 
But thy sounds were sweeter 
Than the dome of Peter 
Flings o’er the Tiber, 
Pealing solemnly :— 
O! the bells of Shandon 
Sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters 


Of the river Lee. 


There’s a bell in Moscow, 
While on tower and kiosk o! 
In Saint Sophia 
The Turkman gets, 
And loud in air 
Calls men to prayer 
From the tapering summit 
Of tall minarets. 
Such empty phantom 
I freely grant them; 
But there is an anthem 
More dear to me,— 
Tis the bells of Shandon, 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters 


Of the river Lee. 


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AUTOBIOGRAPHY 269 


WILLIAM ULLATHORNE 
1806—1889 


William Ullathorne, Benedictine, archbishop, and author, was 
born in Yorkshire in 1806. He entered the Benedictine community 
in 1823, being professed in 1825. 

In 1833 he became vicar-general for Australia, serving in the col- 
onies for eight years. Returning to England in 1841, he devoted 
himself to aiding in the organization of the English hierarchy, a work 
which was finally completed by proclamation of Pope Pius XI in 1850. 

From this time he labored as Bishop of Birmingham in the inter- 
ests of his diocese until 1888, when he resigned and spent the last year 
of his life in retirement at Oscott College as Archbishop of Cabasa. 
He died in 1889. 

Although the greater part of Archbishop Ullathorne’s writing was 
done for purposes closely allied to his work as an ecclesiastical ex- 
ecutive, he produced one book to which one can turn as to a master- 
piece—-his Autobiography, edited by Augusta Theodosia Drane. This 
is one of the most originally conceived as well as fascinatingly written 
memoirs in the whole range of English autobiographical writings. 


From AUTOBIOGRAPHY 
ARRIVAL AT SYDNEY 


MADE it a point of policy not to send any previous notice 

of my coming to Sydney, where I arrived in the month of 

February, 1833. I walked up straight to the priest’s resi- 
dence, and there I found a grave and experienced priest in Father 
McEncroe, who had formerly been Vicar-General to Bishop Eng- 
land in South Carolina. He had come from Ireland to Sydney 
the year previous with Mr. Attorney-General Plunkett, his wife, 
and sister. From him I learnt a good deal of how things stood. 
Father Therry had gone to Parramatta, but quickly hearing of the 
arrival of another priest, returned that evening. [ke housekeeper 
was the widow of the celebrated John Maguire, who kept the 
British troops at bay in the Wicklow Mountains after the insur- 
rection of 1798 had been put down in the west of Ireland. At 
last he surrendered, on condition that he and his family should be 


270 WILLIAM ULLATHORNE 


conveyed out free to New South Wales. Father Therry had 
promised the gallant old man on his death-bed that he would pro- 
tect his wife and family. 

I looked so youthful that the first language of Father Therry, 
and even of his housekeeper, was naturally patronizing; but after 
dinner I produced the document appointing me Vicar-General, 
with jurisdiction over the whole of New South Wales, as well as 
the rest of New Holland, after reading which Father Therry im- 
mediately went on his knees. ‘This act of obedience and submis- 
sion gave me great relief. I felt that he was a truly religious 
man, and that half the difficulty was over. At his invitation I 
went with him that evening to the house of a gentleman, where I 
found myself in company with precisely the three persons with 
whom it was represented to me in England that I should find my 
difficulty. But, in fact, they were all very good men, and we 
became great friends. Still I was internally amused, for they 
evidently took me for a raw college youth; and I humored the 
notion, and was told at a later time that after I had left they had 
talked of sending me to Bathurst, then the remotest part of the 
Colony. 

‘The next morning as I came from Mass in the little chapel, 
Father Therry met me and said: ‘Sir, there are two parties 
among us, and I wish to put you in possession of my ideas on the 
subject.” I replied: “No, Father Therry, if you will pardon me, 
there are not two parties.” He warmed up, as his quick sensitive 
nature prompted, and replied, with his face in a glow: ““What can 
you know about it? You have only just arrived, and have had 
no experience.” “Father Therry,” I said, with gravity, “listen 
tome. ‘There were two parties yesterday; there are none to-day. 
They arose from the unfortunate want of some person endowed 
with ecclesiastical authority, which is now at an end. For the 
present, in New South Wales, I represent the Church, and those 
who gather not with me scatter. So now there is an end of 
parties.” 

That day I went by coach to Parramatta, to see the Governor 
at his country residence. Sir Richard Bourke had recently lost 
his wife, to whom he was much attached, and was ill in bed. But 
he was anxious to have the Catholic affairs settled, and gave me 
an audience in his bedroom. ‘The fine old soldier was one of the 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY 271 


most polished men I ever met. In his younger days he had been 
a good deal under the influence of the celebrated Edmund Burke, 
and was a man of extensive information as well as experience. 
‘The statue erected to his memory in Sydney bears recorded on its 
base the great measures by which he gave freedom and social 
progress to the Colony. Though not a Catholic, he had a great 
respect for the Catholic religion, and had many Catholic relatives 
and friends. He received me with great kindness, and we soon 
understood each other. I listened to his remarks, and then asked 
leave to see him again after I had inquired into the points of 
which he spoke. I returned to Sydney, and on the Sunday I an- 
nounced my powers to the people from the altar, and stated that I 
suspended all affairs connected with the business of the Church 
for a fortnight, when, after making due inquiries, I would call a 
public meeting of the Catholics. 

Father Therry was quite an exceptional character. He was 
truly religious, never omitting to say Mass daily even in difficult 
circumstances; and up the country, when he could find no appro- 
priate roof for the purpose, he would have a tent erected in some 
field or on some mountain side. He also said the Rosary in public 
almost every evening, gathering as many people as he could. He 
was of a highly sensitive temperament, and readily took offence, 
but was ready soon after to make reparation. He was full of 
zeal, but wanting in tact, so that he zepeatedly got into trouble 
with the Government, and sometimes with the successive eccles- 
iastical authorities. Hence the long difficulties which arose after 
he was superseded as Vicar-General in Tasmania by its first 
bishop. Having passed from trade to his studies, he had sufficient 
knowledge of his duties, but was too actively employed to be a 
reader. Having been the sole priest in the Colony for some 
eleven years, he was very popular, not only with the poor Cath- 
olics, for whose sake he did not spare himself, but with all classes 
of the population. Being the one representative of the Church in 
those times, landed property was bequeathed to him in various 
places by Catholics who had no relatives in the Colony. This he 
always treated as his private property, though he never took much 
trouble about it. But in his will he bequeathed it all to religious 
purposes. 

Government policy was still strongly in favor of an exclusive 


pigs) WILLIAM ULLATHORNE 


Established Church under the Crown. A Royal Commissioner, 
Mr. Briggs, was sent out to report on the condition of the Colony; 
Mr. Thomas Hobbs Scott, formerly a wine merchant, accompan- 
ied him as secretary. On their return Mr. Scott was made the 
first Protestant Archdeacon of the Colony; and on his arrival an- 
nounced his intention to organize the Protestant Church, to estab- 
lish parishes and schools, and to hand over to a corporation one- 
seventh of the land of the Colony for that purpose. This was 
accomplished by a deed under the sign manual of George IV. 
Moreover, in the orphanage established by Government at Par- 
ramatta, the children left without parents were all to be taught 
the Protestant religion. ‘This new state of affairs was very alarm- 
ing to the Catholic population, and Father Therry addressed a 
letter to the Sydney Herald (which was at that time also the 
Government Gazette) on June 6th, 1825, in which he signified his 
intention of forming a Catholic School Society, and also of doing 
his best to establish Catholic cemeteries, which would prevent 
many inconveniencies, besides avoiding collision with the Angli- 
can clergy. But at the close of the letter he spoke of the 
Protestant clergy as entertaining for them, as it appeared in print, 
“qualified respect.” Father Therry explained that this was a 
misprint, and that he had written the word “unqualified.” 
Nevertheless the letter was made an excuse for withdrawing his 
small salary, and of excluding him from officiating in any Govern- 
ment establishment; thus prohibiting him from visiting the prisons, 
hospitals, and similar institutions. ‘This occurred under the Goy- 
ernment of Sir Thomas Brisbane, and soon after the arrival of 
Archdeacon Scott with the purely Protestant scheme of an ex- 
clusive Establishment. It is said that Father Therry was offered 
a small sum of money, £300, to leave the Colony, but of that I 
never heard, and have no proof. 

In the year 1829 Sir Roger Therry arrived as Solicitor-General 
and Commissioner of the Court of Requests. He was the first 
Catholic appointed by the Home Government after the Emanci- 
pation Act. On taking office, the Protestant oath was tendered 
to him. He asked for the Catholic one. ‘The official replied: 
“Now that the point of honor is settled, it can make no differ- 
ence.” “It makes all the difference in life,’ replied Sir Roger. 
So the Catholic oath was produced. In 1832 Father McEncroe 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY 273 


arrived, in company with Mr. Plunkett, his wife, and sister. Mr. 
Plunkett came with the appointment of Attorney-General. “These 
two Catholic gentlemen, both of high character, were the first 
men of position who were earnest in the practice and support of 
their religion, and their influence was of great value. “Iwo other 
Catholic gentlemen had come out with office at an earlier time, 
but they concealed their religion until it was lost to themselves and 
their families. There had been a saying in Sydney before I arrived 
that Lady Therry’s was the first bonnet that had appeared in the 
Catholic congregation. But when I reached Sydney things had 
very much changed in that respect. In 1829 the Rev J. V. Dowl- 
ing also arrived, and made his residence at Windsor. “These were 
the only two clergymen besides Father Therry whom I found in 
the Colony in 1833, and both of them had stipends from the Goy- 
ernment. 

The chief difficulty on my arrival regarded the church in Syd- 
ney, which Father Therry had begun soon after his arrival, but 
which was not yet completed. It was on a very large scale, with 
transepts raised to a great height, with walls of massive solidity, 
and with large crypts beneath. “The Government had granted the 
site for the church, and an ample space for whatever buildings 
might be required in addition; but it had never been conveyed to 
trustees, which the Government now required to be done. More- 
over, Father Therry claimed an extent of land considerably larger 
than the Government admitted to have been granted, and there 
was no documentary evidence producible. ‘The land in question 
formed part of Sydney Park, and the addition which he claimed 
would have made considerable inroad into the open space. ‘The 
Government appointed its own surveyor to measure and mark out 
the grant, but Father Therry resisted, and the result was that the 
Catholic Attorney-General was put into a painful position, having 
received directions to bring an action against the Father, which was 
only stayed by my arrival. 

On my second visit to the Governor I asked his Excellency to 
allow me to arrange that instead of six lay trustees, as demanded, 
I might be allowed to have three clerical trustees of my own ap- 
pointment, and three lay trustees to be selected by the congrega- 
tion. ‘This, I said, would secure three very respectable laymen, 
in whom everyone would confide, but if six laymen were required 


274 WILLIAM ULLATHORNE 


it would lead to serious conflicts. Sir Richard at once understood 
it, and consented. ‘Anything reasonable,” he said, ‘for the sake 
of peace.” I then solicited his Excellency to join with me in 
completing the church for service; for we had not a single church 
completed. In Sydney we had only the use of a Government 
building, used for the Court of Requests, where we had the Sun- 
day services and a school on week-days. If the Government would 
complete the woodwork, including the flooring, I would put in the 
sixty large windows. His Excellency agreed to this also. 

On the Sunday appointed for the meeting, I first said the Mass 
and then preached an earnest sermon on unity. I then took the 
chair, on my own motion, and knowing that several people had 
come prepared to rake up stories of the past, and to load my ears 
with grievances, I put a stop to all this by saying that we were 
not met to talk, but to vote; that hitherto painful divisions had 
prevailed owing to the want of an authority, but as there was now 
a duly appointed authority all good Catholics would adhere to it; 
and as to past troubles, the sooner they were forgotten the better. 
Let us put a ponderous tombstone of oblivion over them, and then 
leave them in God’s hands. Let all the congregation, except the 
servants of the Crown (the convicts), put the three names they 
wish for trustees into the voting box. ‘This was done. The 
three names turned up were those of Mr. Attorney-General Plun- 
kett, Mr. Commissioner Therry, and Mr. Murphy; the latter 
being a most respectable Emancipist, who had been unjustly trans- 
ported, was now a wealthy man, and universally respected. I 
then appointed Father Therry and Father McEncroe, with my- 
self, as the three clerical trustees. “Thus ended our troubles, for 
the six trustees would now have to deal with the Government as 
to the extent of land to be granted. As I saw that all were re- 
lieved and in good humor, I said I should be happy now to hear 
any remarks that anyone was disposed to offer. This brought out 
expressions of thankfulness and unity from the leaders, and the 
meeting closed. I have been thus particular in detailing the steps 
taken to establish peace and order, because, after this stroke of 
policy, it was never afterwards interrupted. 

Passing from the meeting to my residence, I was met at the 
door by a poor ragged Irishman, the only man in tatters I had yet 
seen. He asked me if I would please listen to what he had to say. 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY 276 


“Well,” I said, ‘what is it?” In reply he poured out a stream of 
hexameter verses, in perfect meter and harmony, describing the 
meeting and all its incidents, winding up with a touching thanks- 
giving for the peace restored to the Catholic body. I asked my 
Irish troubadour, with some astonishment, what reduced a man 
of his ability and elevation of mind to such a condition. He re- 
plied: “I am a child of nature, your Reverence; and I cannot re- 
fuse the drink which my countrymen give me in their generosity.”’ 
Some years later, when in the interior country, I called upon a 
wealthy Catholic magistrate, who pressed me to stay for dinner, 
promising me something interesting afterwards if I would do so. 
I consented, and after dinner in rolled my troubadour -from the 
farm, in a fat and fine condition, smiling all over his face. Stand- 
ing by the door, he resumed the history of my transactions from 
the time of the meeting, rolling out a stream of sweet and har- 
monious verses without halt or fault for an hour. He was a self- 
taught man, a mere child of impulse, and spoke in tones the tender 
sweetness of which I -completely recall at this hour. I never saw 
him again. 

Writing home on.the day of my arrival, with the window open 
before me, suddenly there came a darkness. I looked up, and 
there was the head of the chief of the Sydney tribe thrust through 
the window to see what was going on. His black face painted 
red under the eyes, wild mass of hair, beetling brow, big jaws, 
crushed nose, white teeth, and naked shoulders; the grin on his 
face; the energetic nodding of his head, formed a picture so gro- 
tesque and unexpected that it required a little effort to return his 
greetings with politeness. Behind him was his gin, the poor 
princess of his tribe, peering out of the blanket with which she 
was enveloped. I gave them some coppers, and sketched them 
into the letter I was writing. We were the intruders into their 
dominions, not they upon ours, and their tribe had already 
dwindled down to half a dozen fighting men. Father Therry 
was habitually kind to these poor creatures, who camped and held 
their dances and their funerals in a valley by the seashore, about 
half a mile below our residence. He often fed them when in 
want. But there was no making any religious impression upon 
them. Any allusion to a God reduced them to silence. “They had 
a fear of evil spirits, which they sometimes showed at night, and 


276 WILLIAM ULLATHORNE 


imagined that the spirits of men after death came back in other 
forms. 

Father McEncroe and I had once a most interesting account 
from two young men, of the Botany Bay tribe, who told us their 
traditions of the arrival of Captain Cook in that bay. When they 
saw the two ships they thought them to be great birds. “They took 
the men upon them in their clothes, and the officers and marines 
in their cocked hats, for strange animals. When the wings (that 
is, the sails) were closed up, and the men went aloft, and they 
saw their tails hanging down (sailors wore pigtails in those days) 
they took them for long-tailed opossums. When the boat came 
to land, the women were much frightened; they cried and tried 
to keep the men back. The men had plenty of spears, and would 
go on. Cook took a branch from a tree and held it up. They 
came on, and they trembled. “Then Cook took out a bottle and 
drank, and gave them to drink. ‘They spat it out-——salt water! 
It was their first taste of rum. Cook took some biscuit and ate it, 
and gave them some. ‘They spat it out—something dry! It was 
the old ship-biscuit. Then Cook took a tomahawk and chopped 
a tree. [hey liked the tomahawk and took it. ‘Thus the first 
gift they saw the value of was the axe that was destined to clear 
their woods and to make way for the white man. Allowing for 
the broken English, that is an accurate narrative of the tradition 
of the Botany Bay tribe. 

Dr. Bland, an old inhabitant, told me that in early days he had 
witnessed a fight between the Sydney and the Botany Bay tribes 
on the very ground before the house. After hurling their four- 
teen-foot spears, they closed, and each struck his antagonist with 
his waddy, a club of hard wood, and then chivalrously presented 
his head to receive the return blow, striking alternately until one 
of them was laid prostrate. I was walking on one occasion with 
Father McEncroe on the same ground, when a young native fled 
across our path naked and unarmed; a second, with his waddy, 
followed in chase; whilst a third appeared in the distance. “The 
first plunged into the Government domain, an aboriginal forest 
with walks cut through it. We followed by the shortest cut in 
the same direction, but only arrived in time to find the first man 
killed with the waddy of the second, who had fled. ‘The third 


came up in terrible excitement, his naked skin fretted and his 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY a) 


eyes bursting. He was the brother of the man who was slain. 
Finding life extinct, he sent up one cry and then rushed after the 
slayer. The police brought the body into cur stable, and an in- 
quiry was made. But it was found to be a case of native feud 
between two tribes following their own laws. ‘The body was 
given up to the tribe to whom it belonged, and I heard the 
funeral rites performed that night in the valley below. Nothing 
could be done for the souls of these poor creatures, corrupted as 
they were among the Europeans. Some youths, however, from 
tribes more remote, were brought up in Catholic families and be- 
came regular communicants; but as soon as they reached man- 
hood, the savage revived, they flung off their clothes, and rejoined 
their tribe. 

Soon after my arrival at Sydney a venerable old man, who lived 
by splitting timber in the woods, came for his annual visit to go to 
his religious duties; for, like thousands of others, he lived in the 
bush a long way from any priest. He remembered the early days 
when Sydney was nothing but a penal settlement. He was a tall 
man, with white hair and a bowed head, with much refinement of 
speech and manner; an old insurrectionist of 1798. He spoke 
much of Father Flynn, and said with touching pathos: “If Father 
Flyn had been let remain, what would not have been done?” He 
had the sweetest and swiftest tongue of Irish I ever heard. 

Another tall old man, with the same breadth of chest and 
shoulders, and the bearing of a chief, used to be led from the con- 
vict barracks every Saturday by a boy (for he was stone blind) to 
make his confession. And always, after concluding, he made a 
brief, but solemn, act of thanksgiving aloud for the gift of blind- 
ness, as it shut out half the wickedness in the midst of which he 
was compelled to live. 

Bushranging, with its venturesome hazards, had an attraction 
to the Irish convicts, and some of the most desperate bushrangers 
were Irishmen. But it was a rule among bushrangers of all de- 
scriptions, English and Irish, never to touch a priest. “They had 
a fixed idea that if they did they would never have luck again. 
So we always knew we were safe. Once, going on a sick call from 
Sydney to Liverpool, a man sprung out of the blush with a blunder- 
buss on his shoulders, and seized the horse’s head. I was sitting 
in my gig, wrapped in a cloak, and at once disengaged my hands, 


278 WILLIAM ULLATHORNE 


whilst my servant prepared for a spring on him, when the bush- 
man, seeing my face in the moonlight, ran off among the trees. 
The men in the condemned cells have told both the Bishop and 
the priests of particular times and circumstances when they passed 
them by, lying in wait in their hiding-places. 

There were several soldiers in the 17th Regiment who went to 
their weekly Communion, and at least twenty-two who went once 
a fortnight. One young man I particularly remember, who was 
quite a contemplative. He had received the Carmelite scapular 
before he entered the army, and had persevered in a habit of prayer 
and fasting. He spent all his sentry watches in prayer. He had 
to stand sentry by the jail, close to the gibbet, one night after two 
men had been hung upon it; and such was his terror at the work- 
ing of his imagination in that ghastly spot, with the shades of 
night around him, that, as he afterwards told me with a sense of 
gratitude, nothing but the earnestness with which he said _ his 
prayers, and so conquered his imagination, saved him from throw- 
ing down his musket and running away. ‘The incidents of the 
barrack-room and the rigors of military discipline served him as 
subjects of self-mortification, and he certainly had a tender con- 
science and an habitual sense of the presence of God. He kept 
several of his comrades steady to their religious duties. I have 
often wondered what became of this young soldier, who had then 
gone on well and holily for several years. 

‘There was a convict about thirty years old, far up the country 
on the Bathurst range, beyond the Blue Mountains, who was quite 
a contemplative. A shepherd, always following his sheep over ex- 
tensive pastures, and except at lambing and shearing times, always 
alone, or nearly so, he spent his time in prayer and enjoyed his 
solitude. “There was then no priest resident in all that country; 
and his master was so pleased with his steady, reliable conduct, and 
the care he took of his sheep, that he let him come down once a 
year to Sydney to receive the Sacraments, and gave him five shil- 
lings to buy food on the way. He walked upwards of a hundred 
miles for this purpose, praying by the way. He would stop a few 
days in Sydney, and I used to give him half-a-crown to help him 
back, and then he returned to his wilderness. He had the gentle- 
ness of manner which the habits of prayer and solitude give. 

I was often struck with the injustice that men constantly com- 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY 279 


mit in generalizing the habits of criminals, and leaving them not 
one virtue or humane quality. I have often sat at the table of 
lawyers and attendants at the criminal courts and have heard them 
discuss the criminals they had been engaged in trying, or hearing 
tried; and have observed how natural is the disposition, even of 
shrewd men, to apply the principle, “he who offends in one point 
is guilty of all,” in a sense certainly never contemplated in the 
sacred Scriptures. “There the sense intended undoubtedly is that 
the offender against one point of law is guilty against the principle 
on which all law is based, and against the God Whose command 
is disobeyed, and against that love of God which is the object 
and end of all law. But men of the world have a habit, fostered 
especially in law courts and among those who deal with criminals, 
of concluding that “once a criminal, always a criminal”; and that 
to have offended once implies a natural malignity ready on occa- 
sion to perpetrate every crime. Such monsters, however, are rare 
in human nature. I have often had the opportunity of compar- 
ing men, as from my scant knowledge I knew them inwardly, with 
the judgment passed upon them by those who knew the same 
criminals only by the outward evidence that is brought into the 
courts of justice. And I have seen the vast amount of practical 
truth embodied in the inspired sentence, ‘‘Man sees in the face, 
but God beholds the heart.” This singular experience has forced 
on me the necessity of a divine judgment to rectify the judgment 
of men, more than all the high theories drawn up on the subject, 
from the treatise of the pagan Plutarch down to the reasonings of 
the Catholic De Maistre. 

By Christmas night the great church was completed, and we 
began to have the services and devotions in a more becoming man- 
ner. ‘The congregation became large and communicants were 
much increased. With the aid of the Government I also began a 
school chapel on the Rocks, among the rudest part of the popula- 
tion. Father Therry often made visits into the more populous 
parts of the interior. I visited various districts occasionally, and 
especially Maitland, on the river Hunter; St. Patrick’s Plains, 
higher up the country; Newcastle, at the mouth of the Hunter; 
the beautiful district of Illawara; Bathurst, beyond the Blue 
Mountains; and sometimes Parramatta. Our usual way of trav- 
elling was on horseback, with a servant on another horse carrying 


280 WILLIAM ULLATHORNE 


the vestments and altar-stone. We always carried the Blessed 
Sacrament in a pyx in the breast pocket, not knowing where or 
when we might come upon the sick and dying. The Holy See 
has since prohibited this practice; and recollecting that we often 
had to stay the night in taverns, and in more miserable places, I 
think there was wisdom in the prohibition. My oil stocks, 
through wearing a hole in the pocket, were lost in the desolate 
Blue Mountains. But, strange to say, a Frenchwoman passed 
that way, found them, and concluded that they must belong to a 
priest, and so they were finally recovered. A silver snuff-box lost 
in the same region was never recovered, although my name was 
upon it and I offered a reward for it. I valued it as a gift from 
my mother. 

We generally used the police courts for chapels, but at Bathurst 
I used the ballroom of the Royal Hotel, built over the stables, 
and at Appin I said Mass in a room of the tavern, where I 
preached against drunkenness. “The innkeeper, a worthy Catholic, 
was rallied about this sermon; but he said: “We will take any- 
thing from his Reverence.”’ I was breakfasting after my work in 
this inn, when I was told that a man wanted to see me. “Bring 
him in,” said I. “Good morning, your Reverence,’ he said at 
the door. “Good morning to you; when were you at your duties 
last?’ ‘Ah, it’s not them, your Reverence.’ ‘Well, what is 
it?” “To tell your Reverence the truth, the other day I got 
drunk, and I promised my wife on my knees that I would not 
take a drop of drink for twelve months, unless through the hands 
of a priest. And if your Reverence could just let me take a bottle 
of rum through your hands to keep Christmas with (I 
I will make a bargain with you. Father Therry will be here about 
Christmas, and if you promise me to go to your duties with him, 
and only to drink it moderately, two glasses at a time with your 
family, you shall have a bottle of rum.” It was brought in and 
paid for, when the man held it up to the light, and said: “It looks 
very nice, wouldn’t your Reverence have a little drop?” “Come,” 
I said, ‘you want the bottle opened. It won’t do; go and keep 
your promise, and mind this, I shall inquire if you do keep it.” 
“But,” he said, ‘““your Reverence must touch the bottle; that was 
in my oath.” 

Wherever we went the Catholic innkeepers entertained us and 





AUTOBIOGRAPHY 281 


our horses, and would never accept payment. When we reached 
a township, the first day was spent in riding round the country, 
visiting all the settlers, Protestant as well as Catholic, to ask leave 
for the convict servants to come to Mass and the Sacraments next 
day. ‘The whole of the next day was occupied with people com- 
ing and going, and perhaps a second day was required for Com- 
munions. “The heat was often intense, and after riding round, 
both man and horse were exhausted. “To approach a farm re- 
quired a little management. “The moment you appear, a whole 
chorus of barking dogs rush out to meet you; and there you must 
stand surrounded with them until someone comes to take you 
under protection, after which your claims to hospitality are admit- 
ted and you are greeted with a wagging of tails. But woe to you 
if, after a hard day’s ride, one of your first salutations is: “What 
a pity, we are just going to kill’; for this means that there is no 
meat in the house, and that your diet will be damper and tea, 
with an egg or two—damper being a heavy unleavened cake baked 
in the ashes, and so called, no doubt, from the damp it puts on 
your digestion. Hospitality, however, a hearty welcome, and the 
best that can be had, never fail in the Australian bush. 

But, at times, one gets into queer places, and meets with odd 
incidents. Archbishop Polding was sleeping one night in a log 
hut, with open rafters above. Awaking, he saw two small lights 
in the upper roof, and was puzzled to make out what they were. 
They looked like two greenish stars peering through the shingles. 
But the mystery was solved by a cat pouncing down from the 
beams and seizing him by the nose. Having a sick call from Syd- 
ney to Illawara, a ride of eighty miles, a very heavy rain came on, 
and I stopped at a wooden hut for shelter. As the downpour 
continued the good people offered to lend me a beautiful blue cloth 
cloak, which hung up in the room and which someone had left 
there for a time. When it was taken off at the house where I 
stopped the whole inside of it was covered with bugs, as if it had 
been sown with pearls, and it had to be hung upon a tree and 
swept with a broom. ‘The sick woman whom I went to visit, and 
whom the messenger, who had ridden all the way to Sydney, re- 
ported to be near death, came and opened the door. She was 
quite well, and had only a fit of ague. I stopped the night at a 
log hut in the neighborhood, and was awakened the next morn- 


282 WILLIAM ULLATHORNE 


ing by a very loud and extraordinary noise. Shrieks and wail- 
ings were predominant, whilst a certain harmonious discord in 
two parts ran through the shrill notes. I got up and inquired, 
and was told that it was the settler’s clock; a species of kingfisher 
that lives on snakes, against which it is protected by a ruff of 
feathers round its neck. Owing to its destroying so many poison- 
ous snakes the bird is held sacred. From the extraordinary dia- 
logue of sounds with which the male and female salute the rising 
sun, Governor King gave it the name of the laughing jackass, by 
which it is commonly called. Returning from that most beautiful 
district at the ascent of Mount Keera, the forest was on fire on 
both sides: a not unusual occurrence after a high wind on a very 
hot day. I stopped to examine if it was safe to proceed, and, 
looking to the horse’s feet, found a kangaroo in miniature, cower- 
ing under the horse’s hind legs for protection from the fire. On 
the same ascent is the celebrated hollow tree, to which I once con- 
ducted Bishop Polding for shelter from heavy rain: it kept us and 
our horses perfectly dry, and there was still room enough for two 
more horses. 

Breakfasting at Bathurst in a hotel after saying Mass, a young 
lady came to me in great distress of mind. She had but recently 
arrived alone in the Colony, and had brought me a letter of intro- 
duction. ‘Whatever are you doing,” I asked, in some surprise, 
“in this remote place?” ‘Through her tears she told me that she 
had come with the view of buying land; but that she was lodging 
with a Catholic farmer in the neighborhood, who would not let 
her have her horse, and was trying to force her to marry his son. 
“Do you really mean to say that you have ridden all the way from 
Sydney, and have crossed those lonely Blue Mountains without 
any guide or protector?’ So it was, however. ‘Go back at once 
to your lodgings,’ I said, “and tell the people that I shall be 
there in two hours’ times.”” On my reaching the door the whole 
family came out. ‘They were so sorry, but the lady’s horse was 
loose in the bush, and could not be caught. I said to my man: 
“Put the lady’s saddle on your horse; then go back to the hotel, 
get another horse, and follow us as soon as you can over the Con- 
noll Plains. As to you (turning to the settler), see you send that 
lady’s horse and things to the Bathurst Hotel by to-morrow morn- 
ing, or you will hear through the magistrate.’”’ No sooner was 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY 283 


she mounted than I gave her a canter of some eight or ten miles, 
when I deposited her with a worthy surgeon and his wife, who 
kindly undertook to see her off to Sydney by the next public con- 
veyance, and to send a trusty man with her horse. I thus lost a 
day in rescuing a distressed damsel from toils woven by her own 
folly. 

Wherever we got the loan of a court house up the country as a 
chapel I invariably found a Bible on the bench for administering 
oaths, on the back of which a paper was pasted the full length in 
the form of a cross; most commonly consisting of two crossed 
pieces of coarse brown paper. When anyone had to be sworn, the 
clerk asked: “Are you Protestant or Catholic?’ If Protestant, 
the book was opened and its pages kissed; if Catholic, the brown 
paper cross was presented to be kissed. I wrote a letter to the 
Governor, pointing out both the indecency and the illegality of 
this practice, as well as the prejudice which it caused. By a cir- 
cular to the magistrates the abuse was put an end to. 

At Sydney we did our outdoor work in gigs, as well to save 
time as on account of the heat. Besides the usual flock, forming 
a fourth of the population, we had to look after the prisoners’ bar- 
racks, a huge jail to which the convict men were sent on their 
first landing, and to which they were returned from every part of 
the Colony for punishment. We had also to attend the felons’ 
jail, where some forty executions took place yearly. We had to 
look after a large chain-gang upon an island in Sydney Cove. 
We had to visit a large convict hospital at Sydney; another at 
Parramatta, fifteen miles off; and another at Liverpool, at a 
distance of twenty miles. Again there was the Benevolent Asy- 
lum, a refuge for decayed people; for there was no Poor Law, nor 
was it needed in those days. The funerals, also, which were 
outside the city, required to be attended to at least every other 
day. Parramatta had to be served regularly from Sydney, and 
Liverpool from time to time. Father McEncroe and I had to 
bear the brunt of this work. 

Another field of occupation was examining and signing the 
papers of the large convict population. No one could obtain his 
ticket of leave, or his free pardon, or leave to marry, or the privi- 
lege of having wife and children sent out at Government expense, 
unless the document he presented was signed by a clergyman of 


284 HENRY EDWARD MANNING 


his communion. ‘Then there were duties for the Vicar-General 
as head of the department; duties and correspondence with the 
Colonial Office, with the Surveyor’s Office, with the Architect’s 
Office, with the Audit Office, with the Treasury, and with the 
military, as well as with the Convict Department. 

‘There were grants of land to-be obtained for churches, schools, 
or presbyteries; payments to be arranged or certified for priests 
or school teachers; aid to be sought for new buildings; arrange- 
ments made for duties to the military, as well as for the convicts; 
favors to be solicited in exceptional cases that seemed to call for 
mercy; special journeys in Government services by land and sea, 
such as attending executions. I always found the heads of de- 
partments friendly and obliging. The official dinners at Gov- 
ernment House tended to strengthen this good understanding; and 
on those occasions his Excellency was always considerate in invit- 
ing the Protestant Archdeacon and Catholic Vicar-General on 
different days, so that each in his turn had the place of honor, 
and said grace. 


HOELN ROY (EoD W AYR Dio NU A NUNGTSING 
1808—1892 


Henry Edward Manning, convert and cardinal, was born in Hert- 
fordshire in 1808. Beginning his education under tutors, he pro- 
ceeded to Harrow, and finally entered Balliol College, Oxford, from 
which he was graduated in 1830. 

After serving in the Colonial Office for a time after graduation, 
he gave over his political ambitions to enter the Anglican Church. 
Accordingly, he returned to Oxford for further study, taking orders 
in 1832. 

In 1841, having held a small living in Sussex for eight years, he 
was appointed Archdeacon of Chichester. His opportunities for the 
exercise of his particular talents—political and social—were, as a 
consequence, considerably increased. In the meantime, however, the 
forces which were to result in the Oxford Movement were develoup- 
ing strength and as they gradually accumulated momentum, Manning, 
like Newman, Faber, and a host of other Anglican clergymen of 
spiritual integrity, could not remain untouched. His study of the 
early Fathers had slowly convinced him that the Church of England 


GOSSIP 285 


was but a schism; it remained, however, for the Gorham Judgment 
of 1850 and its results finally to show him the inevitable conclusion. 
Hence, in 1851 he was received into the Catholic Church. 

The history of his subsequent career is a familiar one—his part in 
the labor troubles of the time, his controversies in support of the 
Catholic position in England, and his differences with Newman: all 
this is common knowledge. Likewise, his writing, in so far as The 
Eternal Priesthood and The Temporal Mission of the Holy Ghost 
are concerned, is known throughout the Catholic world. His private 
journals, however, and his informal essays, the last collected under the 
title Pastime Papers, have not yet received the critical appreciation 
that is their due. Nevertheless, it is these writings, produced in mo- 
ments when the great churchman, freed for the time from the pressure 
of his office, was able to relax into a mood conductive to self-analy- 
sis and its harmonious expression, that must stand as his contribution 
to literature. And although the Journals—indicative as they are 
of a mind at once militant yet humble, and written in a manner that 
for intricacy of expression puts no little tax upon the resources of the 
language—are representative of his way of thought, it is the informal 
essays as well that one must know in order properly to fathom Car- 
dinal Manning’s many-sidedness. 


GOSSIP" 
OBLEST things find vilest using.” And certainly it is 


a rigorous destiny that Gossipred should have come to 

signify the worst of social vices. There is something 
venerable in the pious confabulation of godfathers and godmothers 
over caudle-cups and postle-spoons: but there is something murder- 
ous in the conspiracy of Gossips. It may be that the christening 
of an infant may have usually let loose a flood of small talk, and 
volumes of charitable hopes that the son may be better than his 
father, and the daughter less intolerable than her mother. ‘This 
mixture of detraction and prophecy is the original sin of gossiping: 
and it has descended with rapid propagation to all races and lan- 
guages among Christian men. 

‘There are many varieties in the Gossip kingdom. First, there 
is the Harmless Gossip, who, being good-hearted but empty- 
headed, talks incessantly in a kindly, bird-witted, scatter-brained 
way of all sorts and conditions of men. Such a one cannot talk 


"Reprinted from Pastime Papers by the kind permission of Burns, Oates 
& Washbourne, Ltd., owners of the copyright. 


286 HENRY EDWARD MANNING 


of subjects scientific, literary, or historical, for he knows nothing 
about them; nor of things generally, for he is habitually unob- 
servant; but his whole talk is of persons. What such a one has 
done, is doing, is about to do, would do, or will do: and what such 
another has said, or is saying, and so on, through all the moods and 
tenses: how Mr. Gladstone entered Parliament as a supralapsa- 
rian, but has gone over to the social democracy: and how no 
Duchess of Sutherland would ever have in her wardrobe less than 
one hundred forty-four pocket-handkerchiefs, every one of which 
cost twenty-five guineas: how Sir Wilfrid Lawson in early life 
tried to be a Dominican, but was sent away because of his hard 
drinking and contagious melancholy. Such gossips are, however, 
as free from guile or malice as they are from common sense or dis- 
cernment of what in men or things is credible, probable, or possible. 
Nothing comes amiss to them. Gossip they must, by a second 
nature. If they have anything to say, they will say it: if nothing, 
it is all one: they buzz on amiably, sicut chimaera bombitanes in 
vacuo; amiable buzzing creatures, the bluebottles of social life. 

‘There is next the Unconscious Gossip, who repeats all he hears 
to all he meets, with no greater perception of the fitness of time, 
place, or person, than he has of colors in the dark. What some- 
body told him he tells to everybody; mostly to the person who 
ought last to hear it, and whom it most concerns. “The uncon- 
scious gossip is an adult enfant terrible—a sort of petroleur or 
petroleuse on a large scale, sprinkling society with petroleum, be- 
lieving it to be as harmless as salad-oils. Such innocents have not 
even the vice of curiosity. “They have not sufficient perception of 
either the eternal or the transient relations of things to excite curi- 
osity, or to make them conscious of the social explosions, earth- 
quakes, conflagrations they are daily causing. “The law against 
arson ought to be extended to such unconscious incendiaries. 
Their only plea at bar is: “Who could have ever thought that the 
man I met in the train was accused of the crime or afflicted with 
the unhappiness of which I told him? I did not even know who 
he was.” 

To these must be added the Professional Gossip. ‘This is the 
kind known to the Clubs. He knows everybody; is particularly 
intimate with the people you are talking of; he saw them yester- 
day; or is going to dine with them, to meet the Russian Ambas- 


GOSSIP 287 


sador, to-morrow. He puts no handle to any man’s name: they 
are his familiars and clients, patients and penitents, Lords, Com- 
mons, and Lions. They all consult him; tell him everything, do 
nothing without him. He was called last night after twelve 
o'clock by telegram to Hawarden Castle or to Alnwick, but was 
not able to go, being sent for from Buckingham Palace. He 
knows the outline of the Bill of the Session; and how many Peers 
will be made to carry it; and who are to be made Peers. Such 
gossips have one fatality. Their prophecies never come to pass; and 
of their secrets, what is true is not new, and what is new is not 
true. Each day wipes them out; but they are like tales of fiction, 
a pleasant excitement for the moment. Such gossips are not ma- 
licious. “They are too well pleased with themselves to bear ill- 
will. A quarrel, or even a duel now and then, they may create 
without meaning it; but they make it up by sacrificing themselves, 
which costs them nothing, and they begin again the old trade with 
new capital. 

But Gossipdom has inner bolge or circles less innocuous. As 
we enter further, we encounter next the Malignant Gossip. Of 
this kind there are two sorts—-men who murder the reputations 
of others, and women who throw vitriol over it. They have an 
ear always wide open to catch all evil that is said, truly or falsely 
in the world. ‘Their ears are spread in the dark, like the nets of 
bat-folders; nothing escapes them. It is enough to be ten minutes 
in a room with them, to see the rent in every man’s coat, or the 
wrinkle in every woman’s temper. As a sponge sucks in water, 
so these malignant gossips draw in, by affinity, all malignant his- 
tories. “They have, too, a laboratory in the brain, and a chemical 
acid by which all that is malignant is at once detected, and drawn 
out for use in a concentrated form. Such men are man-slayers: 
for to a good man and an honorable man a fair name is dearer 
than life. And such women are domestic vitrioleuses, more guilty 
than the male malignities, as the nature and dignity of woman is 
mercy, tenderness, and compassion. ‘The distortion of their nature 
is therefore more intense. 

There remains one more kind—the Mendacious Gossip. We 
put him last, not because he is necessarily worse, but because he 
makes more havoc, and provides, both willingly and unwillingly, 
weapons and vitriol for the use of the malignants. For such gos- 


288 AUBREY DE VERE 


sips by no means are always conscious or intentional liars. ‘They 
have gaping ears, and itching tongues, and wandering wits. 
‘They are never sure of what they hear, and never accurate in what 
they repeat. They magnify, and multiply, and put carts before 
horses, and all things upside down, first in their own minds, and 
next in their histories. “Chey would not misrepresent if they knew 
it, nor do mischief if they were aware of it; but all their life long 
they do mischiefs of lesser or greater magnitudes. “They are not 
false, for they have no intention to be untruthful; but they are 
not true, for a great part of what they say is false. With all their 
good intentions they are dangerous as companions, and still more 
dangerous as friends. But there is another kind of mendacious 
gossip, who knows that he is inventing, inverting, exaggerating, 
supplementing with theories and explanations of his own, the 
words and actions of other men. ‘The Italians call such a man 
uomo finto. He is a living fiction; and all he touches turns to 
fiction, as all that Midas touched turned to gold. He is reckless 
of the name, and fame, and feelings, and dignity of other men, 
having none of his own: and he is hardly conscious of the pain he 
inflicts, though he would still inflict it even if he could feel it 
himself: for in him the malignant and mendacious gossip meet in 
one brain—and a miserable brain it is. Quisque suos patimur 
manes. Self is our worst scourge. 


AUD Bi RIE WY wie Vi EadRiBs 
1814——1902 


Aubrey de Vere, convert, poet, and essayist, was born in Ireland 
in 1814. He entered Trinity College, Dublin, in 1832, devoting him- 
self chiefly to the study of metaphysics. Later he spent some time 
reading at both Oxford and Cambridge, and in Rome. 

His first impulse toward Catholicity came, strangely enough, 
through his study of Coleridge, to whose poetry together with that 
of Wordsworth he had been early drawn; and the impulse, fostered 
by the Oxford Movement, finally led him into the Church in 1857. 


*Selections from the work of Aubrey De Vere are reprinted by the kind 
permission of Kegan Paul, French, Trubner & Company, Ltd., owners of 
the copyright. 


SAINT FRANCIS AND PERFECT JOY 289 


Although he wrote a number of political and critical works, it is 
his poetry for which he is chiefly distinguished. Highly intellectual, 
of a lofty spirituality, and musically rhythmic, it must be reckoned 
with in any estimate of nineteenth century verse. 


SAINT FRANCIS AND PERFECT JOY 
FROM THE FIORETTI DI S. FRANCESCO 


BLESSED SAINT FRANCIS, in the winter time, 

When half the Umbrian vales were white with snow 

And all the northward vine-stems rough with rime, 
Walked from Perugia down. His steps were slow, 

Made slow by thought; yet swift at times, for love 5 
Showered o’er his musings, fired them from above. 


Right opposite, high on Assisi’s hill, 

The Saint was born, child of a wealthy house; 

And though, corrupt delights abhorring still, 

‘The revel he had shunned, and wild carouse, 10 
Not less in camps and ’mid the festal throng 

At times the youth had lived; yet not for long. 


For from the Eternal Altar in the skies 

‘The Kingly Prophet and the Victim Priest, 

Standing with hands outstretched, had bent His eyes 15 
One moment on him. Straight, from earth released, 

The Saint, predestined, cast her lures aside, 

And Holy Poverty espoused—his Bride. 


Love, perfect made, lives in the Loved alone; 

All gifts, by him unshared, it spurns as dross; 20 
He, Who for earth’s sake left His heavenly throne, 

From earth accepted one sole gift—the Cross: 

That day Saint Francis on that Cross and Him 

Mused ever, as he walked, with eyes tear-dim. 


290 


AUBREY DE VERE 


At last thus spake he to that Brother meek, 

For hours sole comrade of his silent way: 

“Leone, lamb of Christ, the words I speak 

Write down, and ponder well some far-off day; 

For truth remains; but men are winds that pass, 
Like those brief gusts that bend yon stiffening grass. 


“Leone, we, the least of men, have striven 

An Order to uprear of Orders least ; 

If God, who ofttimes from His feast hath driven 
The proud, and shared Himself the beggar’s feast, 
Should dower that new-born Order with such grace 
That one day it shall stand the first in place; 


“Tf, in each land, the Brothers Minor shone 
Resplendent with a sanctity so high 

‘That all men thronged to hear their word, and none 
Who heard in mortal sin was known to die, 

All crowns of earth to this were but a toy; 

Yet write that this would not be Perfect Joy.” 


Another mile that road ice-filmed they trod 
While sank the sun, and ’gainst their faces blew 
Bitterer the blast; then stood the man of God, 
And thus with kindling cheek began anew: 
“Leone, little lamb of Christ, attend! 

Write down my words, and inly apprehend. 


“Leone, if through all the earth in fear 

Before the Brothers Minor demons fled ; 

If in all lands they caused the deaf to hear, 

The blind to see, and raised the buried dead, 

All this, though greatness proof ’gainst Time’s alloy 
And clear from stain, would not be Perfect Joy.” 


Again pushed on the twain through vapors frore 
And wayside boughs curdled with frozen rain; 
But now Leone paced the Saint before, 

And oft his whitening fingers chafed for pain; 
Again Saint Francis stood; and, with a mien 

As though the Vision Blest his eyes had seen, 


25 


30 


35 


40 


45 


50 


55 


60 


SAINT FRANCIS AND PERFECT JOY 
Resumed, but louder: “Little lamb, give ear! 
Write thus, that if the Brothers Minor flung 
All nets of knowledge round the spiritual sphere 
And spake once more each Pentecostal tongue, 


And depth on depth in Scripture hid explored, 
And dragged the Soldan bound to Christ, his Lord ; 


“Tf, lastly, through all realms they sped His Faith 
Triumphant as on Angels’ necks and wings, 

And raised in Holy Land from shame and scath 

His just ones, abjects now of turbaned Kings, 

Potent alone to abase and to destroy, 

These things, though great, would not be Perfect Joy.’ 


When three times now Leone thus had heard 

From lips so loved the self-same oracle, 

He stood in wide-eyed wonder without word. 

At last he spake: “I pray thee, Father, tell 

What thing is Perfect Joy; how won? where found? 
In heaven, do Angels share it with the Crowned ?” 


Blessed Saint Francis raised his thin, small hand 
And pointed to a chapel, now not far, 

That lonely rose amid the dusking land, 

Backed by the dull red sky and evening star; 

Scarce larger than a huge tree’s hollow bole 

That chapel seemed, their day-long journey’s goal. 


“Saint Mary of the Angels” it was named; 

That Order, destined soon o’er earth to spread, 

As yet no statelier Mother-House had claimed; 
Four hermits gray from Palestine, men said, 

Long centuries past, those sacred walls had reared; 
Though time-worn, still they stood by all revered. 


Round them not yet had risen that temple, graced 
With countless spoils from quarry and from mine, 
Which clasps this hour, ’mid splendors undisplaced, 
That precinct old, its boast, its joy, its shrine, 
Delight of pilgrim bands that, year by year, 

Seeking its pardoning grace in faith draw near. 


2} 


291 


65 


70 


75 


80 


85 


90 


95 


292 


AUBREY DE VERE 


Still toward that spot the Saint held forth his hand— 
Ere long a cloud of mingled sleet and snow, 

That seemed, as on it drifted, to expand, 

Drew nearer to that humble fane and low. 

It passed ; and plainly in the lessening light 

Shone out the chapel, now with snow-flakes white. 


Then spoke the Saint: ‘Leone, seest thou there 
Our happy home? If we who left it late 

So bright, so glad, so silent, and so fair, 

Should cower snow-clad ere Compline by its gate, 
And sue admittance, crying,—‘Porter, wake! 
Receive the Brethren for the Master’s sake!’ 


‘“‘And if that porter, loth to leave his bed, 

Should answer from within,—‘Imposters base! 

Come ye to gorge the olives and the bread 

Reserved for orphans and the sick? give place! 

This knotted staff for backs like yours were best. 
Hence! Psalms are over, and the Brethren rest’ :— 


“And if, an hour gone by, once more we came, 
And prayed: ‘Great Sir, unbar to us the door; 
Two Brothers Minor, spent, thy pity claim, 
Wanderers way-worn, heart-weary, and foot-sore’; 
And he made answer: ‘Hence! for, though I sleep, 
For bandits masked my wolf-hounds vigil keep’ :— 


‘And if, two hours gone by, again we sued, 

And forth that porter rushed with staff and hound, 
Doubtless not knowing us in his Cain-like mood, 
And left us on the snows, bleeding and bound 
Till now on the blank road the morning shone 
And we at heart had cherished petulance none, 


“Nor uttered contumelious word the while, 
But mused all night on Christ and on His Cross 


And thanked Him that He deigned with us, though vile, 


To share it, gain supreme disguised in loss, 
And endless bliss won by an hour’s annoy,— 
Leone, Brother, that were Perfect Joy. 


100 


105 


110 


115 


120 


125 


130 


CARDINAL MANNING 


“Leone! ‘That, and every grace beside, 

Is gift of God, to nought man boasts akin; 
Great sin it were, to turn God’s gifts to pride :— 
This gift, slaying self-love, forestalls such sin! 
Well cried the Apostle, pain-emparadised ,— 
‘Glory in this I will—the Cross of Christ.’ ” 


HUMAN LIFE 


SAD is our youth, for it is ever going, 
Crumbling away beneath our very feet; 
Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing, 
In current unperceived, because so fleet ; 
Sad are our hopes, for they were sweet in sowing, 
But tares, self-sown, have overtopped the wheat; 
Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in blowing; 
And still, O still, their dying breath is sweet! 


And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft us 

Of that which made our childhood sweeter still ; 
And sweet our life’s decline, for it hath left us 

A nearer Good to cure an older III; 
And sweet are ail things, when we learn to prize them 


Not for their sake, but His, Who grants them or denies them. 


CARDINAL MANNING 


I LEARNED his greatness first at Lavington. 
‘The moon had early sought her bed of brine, 
But we discoursed till now each starry sign 

Had sunk; our theme was one, and one alone. 

‘““T'wo minds supreme,” he said, “‘our earth has known; 
One sang in science; one served God in song; 
Aquinas—Dante.” Slowly in me grew strong 

A thought,—‘““These two great minds in him are one ;— 

“Lord, what shall this man do?’”’ Later, at Rome, 
Beside the dust of Peter and of Paul, 

Eight hundred mitered sires of Christendom 
In Council sat. I marked him ’mid them all; 

I thought of that long night in years gone by, 

And cried,—‘‘At last, my question meets reply.”’ 


293 


135 


1@) 


Io 


294 


AUBREY DE VERE 


ODE TO JERUSALEM 


JERUSALEM, Jerusalem! 

If any love thee not, on them 

May all thy judgments fall; 

For every hope that crowns our earth, 
All birth-gifts of her heavenly birth 
To thee she owes them all! 


Deep was thy guilt, and deep thy woe; 
The brand of Cain upon thy brow 
Each shore has felt thy tread; 

No altar now is thine; no Priest; 
Upon thy hearth no paschal feast: 
‘The paschal moon is dead. 


When from their height the Nations fall 
The kind grave o’er them strews her pall; 
They die as mortals die: 

But He who looked thee in the face 
Stamped there that look no years erase 

His own on Calvary. 


Awe-struck on thee men gaze, and yet 
Confess thy greatness, own our debt 
And trembling still revere 

The Royal Family of Man 
Supporting thus its blight and ban 
With constancy austere. 


Those Sciences by us so prized 

‘The sternness of thy strength despised, 
Devices light and vain 

Of men who lack the might to live 

In that repose contemplative 

Which Asian souls maintain. 


i ge) 


15 


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ODE TO JERUSALEM 


By thee the Book of Life was writ; 
And, wander where it may, with it 
Thy soul abroad is sent: 

Wherever towers a Christian Church 
Palace of Earth, Heaven’s sacred Porch 
It is thy monument. 


The minstrel songs, like sounds wind-borne 


From harps on Babel boughs forlorn 
O’er every clime have swept; 

And Christian mothers yet grow pale 
With echoes faint of Rachel’s wail ; 
Our maids with Ruth have wept. 


Thou bind’st the Present with the Past 
The prime of ages with the last; 

The golden chain art thou 

Whereon alone all fates are hung 

Of nation’s springing, or upsprung 
Earthward once more to bow. 


Across the World’s tumultuous gate 


Thou flingest thy shadow’s giant weight; 


The mightiest birth of Time 

For all her pangs she may not bear 
Until her feast she bids thee share 
And mount her throne sublime. 


Far other gaze than that he pours 

On empires round thee sunk, and shores 
That once in victory shone, 

Far other gaze and paler frown 

The great Saturnian star bends down 
On cedared Lebanon. 


He knows that thou, obscured and dim 
Thus wrestling all night long with him 
Shall victor rise at last: 

Destined thy mystic towers to rear 

- More high than his declining sphere 
When, downward on the blast 


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296 FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER 


God’s mightiest Angel leaps and stands, 

A Shape o’er-shadowing seas and lands; 

And swears by Him who swore 

A faithful oath and kind to Man 70 
Ere worlds were shaped or years began, 

That “Time shall be no more.” 


SAINT PETER 
Rock of the Rock! As He, the Light of Light, 


Shows forth His Father’s glory evermore, 

So show’st thou forth the Son’s unshaken might 

Throned in thy unity on every shore: 

On thee His Church He built; and though all night 5 
‘Tempests of leaguering demons round it roar 

The Gates of Hell prevail not, and the Right 

Beams lordliest through the breaking clouds of war. 
Strength of that Church! the Nations round thee reel; 

Like hunted creatures Kingdoms flee and pant; 10 
But God upon His Church hath set His seal, 

Fusing His own eternal adamant 

Through all its bastions and its towers in thee: 

Luminous it stands through thy solidity. 


FRE DE REC KiaGwi Det AdNviGY EAL aiar 
1814—1863 


Frederick William Faber, convert, oratorian, and devotional poet, 
was born in Yorkshire in 1814. After preparation at Harrow, he en- 
tered Balliol College, Oxford, later becoming Fellow of University 
College. At the inception of the Tractarian Movement he became 
one of its proponents, and as a natural consequence took Anglican 
orders, in 1839. In 1843 he received appointment as rector of Elton, 
in Northamptonshire. 

During the years immediately preceding he had twice visited the 
continent and had been deeply impressed with Catholic devotion and 
ceremonial. Hence, soon after his appointment to Elton he began to 
preach Catholic doctrine and wrote a life of St. Wilfrid in which he 
defined his position in no uncertain terms, 


HOPE 297 


In 1845, then, he was received into the Catholic Church, and a 
year later was instrumental in forming a community called “Wil- 
fridians.” “Two years more and he was ordained priest. Being at- 
tracted to Newman, he associated himself with the Oxford leader 
and was sent by him to establish an Oratory in London. Here 
Father Faber began his real work. Creating schools for the poor, 
holding services into which he introduced hymns and undertook pro- 
cessions of the Blessed Sacrament, and writing in support of his 
cause,—these became his activities. And it was for the services thus 
introduced that he composed most of his hymns. 

These poems, combining doctrine and devotion with poetic insight 
and artistic form, and lending themselves, as they do, to musical set- 
ting, became immediately popular with his people and straightway at- 
tracted a wide use. [hey are now a permanent part of English 
devotional literature. 


HOPE 


How much they wrong thee, gentle Hope! who say 
That thou art light of heart, and bright of eye! 
Ah! no,—thou wert not hope, if thou wert gay: 
She hath no part with idle gaiety! 


The gay think only of the passing hour, 5 
And the light mirth the flying moments yield ; 

But thou dost come when days of darkness lower, 

And with the future dost the present gild. 


Yes; thou, sweet Power! art Grief’s twin-sister, given 
To walk with her the weary world around, IO 
Scattering, like dew, the fragrant balm of heaven, 


Where she hath left her freshly bleeding wound. 


Oh! often have I pictured thee in dreams, 

For thou wert always very dear to me; 

And never was I sad but sunny gleams 15 
Have visited my drooping heart from thee. 


Yet words can scarce portray thy lovely face, 

As it hath shone on me at dead of night, 

Wreathed with a smile of calm and serious grace, 

Chaste as the moon’s, as pensive, and as bright. 20 


298 


FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER 


When pity for the grief we would beguile, 
And the glad thought that we can render aid, 
Strive in the heart, and blend into a smile, 
Tis thou that makest sunshine out of shade. 


And on thy brow there sits eternally 

A look of deep, yet somewhat anxious bliss, 
With a wild light that nestles in thine eye, 

As though its home were not a world like this. 


THE- HOLY ANGELS 


ANGELS and Thrones and holy Powers 
And Ministers of light— 

God’s primal sons and mystic bands 
In various orders bright, 

And hidden Splendors wheeling round 
In circles infinite— 


Celestial priests and seraph kings 
In links of glory twine: 

And spirits of departed men 
In saintly luster shine, 

With Angels dear that fold their wings 
Above the awful Shrine— 


Chariots of living flame that fill 
‘The mountain’s hollow side, 
Breezes that to the battle-field 
Over the forest ride, 
Spirits that from the Bridegroom come 
‘To wait upon the Bride— 


‘These are among us and around 
In earth and sea and air, 

At fast and feast and holy rite 
And lonely vigil prayer, 

Morning and noon and dead of night 
Crowding the heavenly stair. 


25 


IO 


I5 


20 


THE HOLY ANGELS 


In solemn hours and paths remote, 
Where worldly sounds are still, 
There comes to us from Spirits nigh 

A contact pure and chill, 
A touch that to the inmost sense 
Runs with unearthly thrill. 


Yet man will deem himself alone— 
That earth so fair and wide 

Was made for him to have unshared 
His glory and his pride, 

‘That he alone, supreme below, 


To heaven could be allied. 


And wouldst thou grudge, poor selfish heart, 
To share thy lonely sway, 

And scorn the visitants that come 
On earth with thee to stay— 

The Beings meek and beautiful 
That follow on thy way? 


There’s many a lake to Heaven looks up 
With bright and earnest eye 

Upon the solitary tops 
Of mountains steep and high, 

And many a plant and flower that bloom 
Where man was never nigh. 


All day and night the lovely clouds 
In curious shapes are blending, 

And colored lights through forest bowers 
Are every hour descending, 

Where none are by but Angel forms, 
God’s glorious road attending. 


Oh! well it is that they for love 
Of man’s cold heart are weeping: 
And it shall please me, Lord! to think, 
While my dull eyes are sleeping, 
Angels for Thine eternal praise 
Eternal watch are keeping! 


299 


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ope 


60 


300 FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER 


TWO FAITHS 


Ou pray for me!—thou know’st what prayer I need! 
What is it to be one in whose weak heart 

‘Two faiths are lodged, while thought and feeling bleed 
In the wild war; yet neither will depart ? 

What is it to be one, spell-drawn to stay 

For the completing of his nature, trembling 

Between two different characters each day, 

And seem to his harsh friends to be dissembling ? 
Watch me, as thou hast watched Mosella’s waves 
Bringing her clear, sweet waters down from ‘reves, 
To Neuendorf along yon southern shore 

Breasting with hope the turbulent green Rhine, 

Till the old flood claims both his banks once more 
Pray on—pray on: like fate may yet be mine. 


THE EASTER GUEST 


Dear MoruHer! from the sacred cell 
Where the departed spirits dwell, 
Mysteriously blest, 

A gentle shadow, by my side 

For one whole day at Easter-tide, 
‘Thou dost with thy poor orphan bide, 
A true though speechless guest. 


Dear Shade! at dawn thou dost not come, 
The hour when Jesus from the Tomb 
Went in the twilight gray: 

‘Thou comest not at sunrise fair, 

And, when to breathe bright Easter air 

I leave my bed, thou art not there,— 
Thou hast not found the way. 


Softly, sweet Presence! dost thou steal 
To me, when all the people kneel 


THE EASTER GUEST 


With trembling hearts prepared ; 
When, on the Mysteries intent, 

We see the veil between us rent, 
Showing the way that Jesus went, 
Then is thy house unbarred. 


And straightway thou art at my side, 
As when, one long past Easter-tide 

I knelt, a cowering boy, 

And thou my little hands didst bare, 
Taking the gloves which I did wear, 
Trembling, entranced, oblivious there 
With awe, deep awe and joy. 


Dear Mother! through the long, long year 


I never think without a tear 
Of thee so soon departed ; 
And, weariest penance! all the things 


Which memory from her storehouse brings 


Are seeds of bitter thought, and stings 
Which keep me broken-hearted. 


I mark thy sadly wondering look, 
When in a passion-fit I spoke 

Harsh words into thine ears; 

When thou a sufferer on life’s brink, 
Waitedst to weep, till thou didst think 
I should not see thy spirit drink 

Its greedy draught of tears. 


O Mother! Mother! with what pain 
I crave thy presence back again 

Thy pardon so to get! 

For mine is now a growing sorrow, 
Which doth, alas! forever borrow 
From every change and every morrow 
New sources of regret. 


301 


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FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER 


But this one day when thou hast come 
From out thy spiritual home, 

Thine Easter’s endless feast, 

What other feelings hast thou brought! 
With what a cheering softness fraught! 
What store, good store, of filial thought 
Hath come with thee, dear Guest! 


From out thy presence thou dost pour 
A healing quiet on my sore, 

The calm of pardon won, 

And a bright cloud of memories 

Doth from the genial past arise, 
Bringing sweet trouble in my eyes, 
From thoughts of duty done. 


Mother! the long, long year I mourn; 
But thy mute presence is an urn, 
Replenished from above, 

Whence yearly there distils a dower 
O deep absolving peace, a shower 

Of benediction,—right and power 
For penitential love. 


THE RIGHT MUST WIN 


On, iT is hard to work for God, 
‘To rise and take His part 

Upon this battlefield of earth, 
And not sometimes lose heart. 


He hides Himself so wondrously, 
As though there were no God; 
He is least seen when all the powers 

Of ill are most abroad. 


50 


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65 


70 


THE RIGHT MUST WIN 


Or He deserts us at the hour 
The fight is all but lost; 

And seems to leave us to ourselves 
Just when we need Him most. 


In masters good ; good seems to change 
To ill with greatest ease ; 

And, worst of all, the good with good 
Is at cross-purposes. 


Ah! God is other than we think; 
His ways are far above, 

Far beyond reason’s height, and reached 
Only by child-like love. 


Workman of God! Oh, lose not heart, 
But learn what God is like; 

And in the darkest battle-field 
Thou shalt know where to strike. 


Thrice blessed is he to whom is given 
The instincts that can tell 
That God is on the field when He 


Is most invisible. 


“Blessed, too, is he who can divine 
Where real right doth lie, 

And dares to take the side that seems 
Wrong to man’s blindfold eye. 


For right is right, since God is God 
And right the day must win; 
To doubt would be disloyalty, 
To falter would be sin. 


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304 COVENTRY PATMORE 


COIiNW ENGLER * ERAT MORE: 
1823—1896 


Coventry Patmore, convert, essayist, and poet, was born in Essex 
in 1823. He was educated privately but remained untrained, so that, 
financial reverses overtaking his family, he was forced to take what- 
ever employment offered itself. 

Fortunately, however, he obtained a position in the library of the 
British Museum which, furnishing him with a sufficient income, 
allowed him, in addition, to follow his natural bent. For, having 
written at an early age verses which were brought out by his father 
and had pleased such a critic as Leigh Hunt, he now continued to 
write, publishing his first important work, T’amerton Church Tower, 
in 1853. The next year saw the appearance of his Angel in the 
House, a long poem in which he treats of love in a manner at once 
exalted and yet commonplace. Patmore sprang at once into place 
among the major poets of the century. 

In 1862 Patmore became a Catholic. The treatment of love in 
The Angel in the House falls not far short of the Catholic ideal and 
in fact many of the ideas held by Patmore up to this time tended 
toward Catholicity; but because of his first wife’s belief he made no 
effort to crystallize his tendency. Upon her death, however, he 
journeyed to Rome for the purpose of religious study and contem- 
plation. Naturally, because of his inclination and because of the 
influences with which he came in contact, his submission was in- 
evitable. 

After this date his work took on a note of deeper spirituality, partly 
to be accounted for by his new faith and partly by the character of 
his second wife, a woman of vivid personality, highly spiritual and 
wholly at one with him in ideal, a significance which mounts at times, 
as in The Unknown Eros, to supreme poetic heights. 

This last volume, published in 1877, is a series of odes which sums 
up the ideas of his later thinking regarding human and divine love. 
It is among the principal contributions to nineteenth century poetry. 

In addition to his verse, Patmore published three volumes of essays. 
These prose writings collected under the titles Religio Poetae; Root, 
Rod, and Flower, and Principle in Art are all the product of his later 
years. [hey deal, for the most part, with the same themes that he 
sets forth in his poetry; but, stripped as they are of poetic devices, 
they stand as brilliant expositions of mystical philosophy, succinct 
and perhaps bare,—hence, for the general reader they are too cryptic 
ever to be widely popular. 


1Selections from the work of Coventry Patmore are reprinted by ar- 
rangement with G. Bell & Sons, Ltd., owners of the copyright. 


LOVE AND POETRY 305 


Patmore died in 1896 and is only now coming into his rightful 
position in critical appreciation. 


LOVE AND POETRY 


VERY man and woman who has not denied or falsified 
nature knows, or at any rate feels, that love, though the 
least ‘‘serious,” is the most significant of all things. The 

wise do not talk much about this knowledge, for fear of exposing 
its delicate edge to the stolid resistance of the profligate and un- 
believing, and because its light, though, and for the reason that, 
it exceeds all other, is deficient in definition.. But they see that to 
this momentary transfiguration of life all that is best in them looks 
forward or looks back, and that it is for this the race exists, and 
not this for the race—the seed for the flower, not the flower for 
the seed. All religions have sanctified this love, and have found 
in it their one word for and image of their fondest and highest 
hopes; and the Catholic has exalted it into a “great Sacrament,” 
holding that, with Transubstantiation—which it resembles—it is 
unreasonable only because it is above reason. ‘The love which is 
the best ground of marriage,’ writes also the Protestant and “judi- 
cious’ Hooker, “‘is that which is least able to render a reason for 
itself.” Indeed, the extreme unreasonableness of this passion, 
which gives cause for so much blaspheming to the foolish, is one 
of its surest sanctions and a main cause of its inexhaustible interest 
and power; for who but a “‘scientist’’ values greatly or is greatly 
moved by anything he can understand—that which can be com- 
prehended being necessarily less than we are ourselves? 

In this matter the true poet must always be a mystic—altogether 
to the vulgar, and more or less to all who have not attained to his 
peculiar knowledge. For what is a mystery but that which one 
does not know? ‘The common handicrafts used to be called mys- 
teries; and their professors were mystics to outsiders exactly in the 
sense that poets or theologians, with sure, but to them uncom- 
municated and perhaps incommunicable, knowledge, are mystics 
to the many. ‘The poet simply knows more than they do; but it 
flatters their malignant vanity to call him names which they mean 
to be opprobrious, though they are not, because he is not such a 
spiritual pauper as themselves. But poets are mystics, not only by 


306 COVENTRY PATMORE 


virtue of knowledge which the greater part of mankind does not 
possess, but also because they deal with knowledge against which 
the accusation of dunces who know the differential calculus is 
etymologically true—namely, that it is absurd. Love is eternally 
absurd, for that which is the root of all things must itself be with- 
out root. Aristotle says that things are uninte!ligible to man in 
proportion as they are simple; and another says, in speaking of the 
mysteries of love, that the angels themselves desire in vain to look 
into these things. 

In the hands of the poet, mystery does not hide knowledge, but 
reveals it as by its proper medium. Parables and symbols are the 
only possible modes of expressing realities which are clear to per- 
ception though dark to the understanding. ‘Without a parable 
he spake not” who always spake of primary realities. Every spir- 
itual reality fades into something else, and none can tell the point 
at which it fades. The only perfectly definite things in the ‘uni- 
verse are the conceptions of a fool, who would deny the sun he 
lives by if he could not see its disc. Natural sciences are definite, 
because they deal with laws which are not realities but conditions 
of realities. Ihe greatest and perhaps the only real use of natural 
science is to supply similes and parables for poets and theologians. 

But if the realities of love were not in themselves dark to the 
understanding, it would be necessary to darken them—not only 
lest they should be profaned, but also because, as St. Bernard says, 
“The more the realities of heaven are clothed with obscurity, the 
more they delight and attract, and nothing so much heightens long- 
ing as such tender refusal.” ‘‘Night,’’ says the inspirer of St. 
Bernard, “‘is the light of my pleasures.” 

Love is rooted deeper in the earth than any other passion; and 
for that cause its head, like that of the Tree Igdrasil, soars higher 
into heaven. ‘The heights demand and justify the depths, as giv- 
ing them substance and credibility. “That He hath ascended— 
what is it but because He first also descended into the lower parts 
of the earth?’ Love “reconciles the highest with the lowest, 
ordering all things strongly and sweetly from end to end.” St. 
Bernard says that “divine love” (religion) “‘has its first root in the 
most secret of the human affections.” _ This affection is the only 
key to the inner sanctuaries of that faith which declares, “Thy 
Maker is thy Husband’’; the only clue by which searchers of the 


LOVE AND POETRY 307 


“secret of the King,” in the otherwise inscrutable writings of 
prophet and apostle, discover, as Keble writes, “the loving hint 
that meets the longing guess,’’ which looks to the future for the 
satisfying and abiding reality, the passage of whose momentary 
shadow forms the supreme glory of our mortality. 

The whole of after-life depends very much upon how life’s tran- 
sient transfiguration in youth by love is subsequently regarded; 
and the greatest of all the functions of the poet is to aid in his 
readers the fulfilment of the cry, which is that of nature as well as 
religion, ‘Let not my heart forget the things mine eyes have 
seen.” ‘The greatest perversion of the poet’s function is to falsify 
the memory of that transfiguration of the senses and to make light 
of its sacramental character. This character is instantly recog- 
nized by the invitiated heart and apprehension of every youth and 
maiden; but it is very easily forgotten and profaned by most, un- 
less its sanctity is upheld by priests and poets. Poets are naturally 
its prophets—all the more powerful because, like the prophets of 
old, they are wholly independent of the priests, and are often the 
first to discover and rebuke the lifelessness into which that order 
is always tending to fall. If society is to survive its apparently 
impending dangers, it must be mainly by guarding and increasing 
the purity of the sources in which society begins. ‘The world is 
finding out, as it has often done before, and more or less forgotten, 
that it cannot do without religion. Love is the first thing to 
wither under its loss. What love does in transfiguring life, that 
religion does in transfiguring love: as any one may see who com- 
pares one state or time with another. Love is sure to be some- 
thing less than human if it is not something more; and the so-called 
extravagances of the youthful heart, which always claims a char- 
acter for divinity in its emotions, fall necessarily into sordid, if 
not shameful, reaction, if those claims are not justified to the 
understanding by the faith which declares man and woman to be 
priest and priestess to each other of relations inherent in Divinity 
itself, and proclaimed in the words “Let us make man in our own 
image’ and “male and female created he them.’ Nothing can 
reconcile the intimacies of love to the higher feelings unless the 
parties to them are conscious—and true lovers always are—that, 
for the season at least, they justify the words “I have said, Ye are 
gods.” Nuptial love bears the clearest marks of being nothing other 


308 COVENTRY PATMORE 


than the rehearsal of a communion of a higher nature. “Its felicity 
consists in perpetual conversion of phase from desire to sacrifice, 
and from sacrifice to desire, accompanied by unchangeable com- 
plaisance in the delight shining in the beauty of the beloved; and it 
is agitated in all its changes by fear, without which love cannot 
long exist as emotion.” Such a state, in proportion to its fervor, 
delicacy, and perfection, is ridiculous unless it is regarded as a 
“sreat sacrement.” It is the inculcation of this significance which 
has made love between man and woman what it is now—at least 
to the idea and aspirations of all good minds. It is time that the 
sweet doctrine should be enforced more clearly. Love being much 
more respected and religion much less than of old, the danger of 
profanation is not so great as it was when religion was revered 
and love despised. “The most characteristic virtue of woman, or 
at least the most alluring of her weaknesses—her not caring for 
masculine truth and worth unless they woo her with a smile or a 
touch or some flattery of her senses—is the prevailing vice of most 
men, especially in these times. “This general effeminacy is the 
poet’s great opportunity. It is his pontifical privilege to feel the 
truth; and his function is to bridge the gulf between severe verity 
and its natural enemy, feminine sentiment, by speech which, with- 
out any sacrifice of the former, is “simple, sensuous, and passion- 
ate.” He insinuates in nerve-convincing music the truths which 
the mass of mankind must feel before they believe. He leads 
them by their affections to things above their affections, making 
Urania acceptable to them by her praenomen Venus. He is the 
apostle of the Gentiles, and conveys to them, without any flavor 
of cant or exclusiveness, the graces which the chosen people have 
too often denied or disgraced in their eyes. 


WIND AND WAVE 
‘THE wedded light and heat, 


Winnowing the witless space, 
Without a let 
What are they till they beat 
Against the sleepy sod, and there beget 5 
Perchance the violet! 


Is the One found, 


THE TOYS 309 


Amongst a wilderness of as happy grace, 
To make heaven’s bound ; 
So that in her 10 
All which it hath of sensitively good 
Is sought and understood 
After the narrow mode the mighty heavens prefer? 
She, as a little breeze 
Following still Night, 15 
Ripples the spirit’s cold, deep seas 
Into delight: 
But in a while, 
The immeasurable smile 
Is broke by fresher airs to flashes blent 20 
With darkling discontent ; 
And all the subtle zephyr hurries gay, 
And all the heaving ocean heaves one way, 
T’ward the voil sky-line and an unguessed weal; 
Until the vanward billows feel 25 
The agitating shallows, and divine the goal, 
And to foam roll, 
And spread and stray 
And traverse wildly, like delighted hands, 
The fair and fleckless sands, 30 
And so the whole 
Unfathomable and immense 
‘Triumphing tide comes at the last to reach 
And burst in wind-kissed splendors on the deafening beach, 
Where forms of children in first innocence 35 
Laugh and fling pebbles on the rainbowed crest 
Of its untired unrest. 


pee lOYS 


My LITTLE son, who looked from thoughtful eyes 
And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise, 
Having my law the seventh time disobeyed, 
I struck him, and dismissed 
With hard words and unkissed,—— 5 


310 COVENTRY PATMORE 


His mother, who was patient, being dead. 
Then fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep, 
I visited his bed, 
But found him slumbering deep, 
With darkened eyelids, and their lashes yet 
From his late sobbing wet. 
And I, with moan, 
Kissing away his tears, left others of my own; 
For on a table drawn beside his head, 
He had put, within his reach, 
A box of counters, and a red-veined stone, 
A piece of glass abraded by the beach, 
And six or seven shells, 
A bottle with bluebells, 
And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art, 
To comfort his sad heart. 
So when that night I prayed 
To God, I wept, and said :— 
Ah, when at last we lie with trancéd breath, 
Not vexing thee in death, 
And thou rememberest of what toys 
We made our joys, 
How weakly understood 
Thy great commanded good, 
Then, fatherly not less 
Then I whom thou hast molded from the clay, 
Thou'lt leave thy wrath, and say, 
“T will be sorry for their childishness.”’ 


LOVE SERVICEABLE 
From “THE ANGEL IN THE HOUSE” 


WHat measure Fate to him shall mete 
Is not the noble lover’s care; 

He’s heart-sick with a longing sweet 
To make her happy as she’s fair. 

Oh, misery, should she him refuse, 
And so her dearest good mistake! 


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THE QUEEN 


His own success he thus pursues 
With frantic zeal for her sole sake. 
To lose her were his life to blight, 
Being loss to hers; to make her his, 
Except as helping her delight, 
He calls but accidental bliss; 
And, holding life as so much pelf 
To buy her posies, learns this lore; 
He does not rightly love himself 
Who does not love another more. 


THE QUEEN 


To HEROISM and holiness 
How hard it is for man to soar; 
But how much harder to be less 
Than what his mistress loves him for! 
He does with ease what do he must 
Or lose her; and there’s naught debarred 
Ah, wasteful woman! she that may 
On her sweet self set her own price, 
Knowing he cannot choose but pay, 
How has she cheapened Paradise! 
How given for naught her priceless gift! 
How spoiled the bread and spilled the wine, 
Which, spent with due respective thrift, 
Had made brutes men and men divine! 
O queen! awake to thy renown, 
Require what ’tis our wealth to give, 
And comprehend and wear the crown 
Of thy despised prerogative! 
I who in manhood’s name at length 
With glad songs come to abdicate 
The gross regality of strength, 
Must yet in this thy praise abate-—= 
That through thine erring humbleness 
And disregard of thy degree, 
Mainly, has man been so much less 
Than fits his fellowship with thee. 


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COVENTRY PATMORE 


High thoughts had shaped the foolish brow, 
The coward had grasped the hero’s sword, 
The vilest had been great, hadst thou, 
Just to thyself, been worth’s reward: 
But lofty honors undersold 
Seller and buyer both disgrace; 
And favor that makes folly bold 
Puts out the light in virtue’s face. 


RTEA I WERE DEAD. 


“Ir I were dead, you’d sometimes say, ‘Poor child’! 
‘The dear lips quivered as they spake, 
And the tears brake 


From eyes which, not to grieve me, brightly smiled. 


Poor child, poor child! 
I seem to hear your laugh, your talk, your song. 
It is not true that Love will do no wrong. 
Poor child! 
And did you think, when you so cried and smiled, 
How I, in lonely nights, should lie awake, 
And of those words your full avengers make? 
Poor child, poor child! 
And now, unless it be 
That sweet amends thrice told are come to thee, 
O God, have thou mo mercy upon me? 


Poor Child! 


LOVPRE BODY 


CREATION’S and Creator’s crowning good; 

Wall of infinitude; 
Foundation of the sky, 
In heaven forecast 

And longed for from eternity, 
Though laid the last ; 
Reverberating dome, 

Of music cunningly built home 


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TO THE BODY 
Against the void and indolent disgrace 
Of unresponsive space; 
Little sequestered pleasure-house 
For God and for his Spouse; 
Elaborately, yea, past conceiving, fair, 
Since, from the graced decorum of the hair, 
Even to the tingling, sweet 
Soles of the simple, earth-confiding feet, 
And from the inmost heart 
Outwards unto the thin 
Silk curtains of the skin, 
Every least part 
Astonished hears 
And sweet replies to some like region of the spheres; 
Formed for a dignity prophets but darkly name, 
Lest shameless men cry “Shame!” 
So rich with wealth concealed 
‘That heaven and hell fight chiefly for this field ; 
Clinging to everything that pleases thee 
With indefectible fidelity ; 
Alas, so true 
To all thy friendships that no grace 
Thee from thy sin can wholly disembrace ; 
Which thus ’bides with thee as the Jebusite, 
That, maugre all God’s promises could do, 
The chosen People never conquered quite; 
Who therefore lived with them, 
And that by formal truce and as of right, 
In metropolitan Jerusalem. 
For which false fealty 
Thou needs must, for a season, lie 
In the grave’s arms, foul and unshriven, 
Albeit in heaven 
Thy crimson-throbbing glow 
Into its old abode aye pants to go, 
And does with envy see 
Enoch, Elijah, and the Lady, she 
Who left the roses in her body’s lieu. 


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COVENTRY PATMORE 


Oh, if the pleasures I have known in thee 
But my poor faith’s poor first-fruits be, 
What quintessential, keen, ethereal bliss 
Then shall be his 
Who has thy birth-time’s consecrating dew 
For death’s sweet chrism retained, 
Quick, tender, virginal, and unprofaned! 


WISDOM 


Wuat’s that which Heaven to man endears, 
And that which eyes no sooner see 
Than the heart says, with floods of tears, 
“Ah, that’s the thing which I would be!” 
Not childhood, full of frown and fret; 
Not youth, impatient to disown 
Those visions high, which to forget 
Were worse than never to have known; 
Not great men, even when they’re good ;— 


The good man whom the Lord makes great. 


By some disgrace of chance or blood 
He fails not to humiliate ;— 
Not these: but souls, found here and there, 
Oases in our waste of sin, 
Where everything is well and fair, 
And God remits his discipline; 
Whose sweet subdual of the world 
The worldling scarce can recognize, 
And ridicule against it hurled 
Drops with a broken sting, and dies; 
Who nobly, if they cannot know 
Whether a scutcheon’s dubious field 
Carries a falcon or a crow, 
Fancy a falcon on the shield; 
Yet ever careful not to hurt 
God’s honor, who creates success, 
Their praise of even the best desert 
Is but to have presumed no less; 


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And should their own life plaudits bring, 
They’re simply vexed at heart that such 30 
An easy, yea, delightful thing 
Should move the minds of men so much. 
They live by law,—not like the fool, 
But like the bard, who freely sings 
In strictest bonds of rhyme and rule, 35 
And finds in them not bonds, but wings. 
They shine like Moses in the face, 
And teach our hearts, without the rod, 
That God’s grace is the only grace, 
And all grace is the grace of God. 40 
‘Their home is home; their chosen lot 
A private place and private name: 
But if the world’s want calls, they'll not 
Refuse the indignities of fame. 


Ae Plat Orr WweAWNTNEE “bik © Ger BR 
1825—1864. 


Adelaide Anne Procter, convert and poet, was born in London in 
1825. She was a precocious student, attaining a considerable pro- 
ficiency in languages and music at an early age. Besides her natural 
ability, she drew, also, upon an environment conducive to literary 
accomplishment, her father being the famous ‘Barry Cornwall,” who 
was one of the most popular men of letters of his day. Hence, she 
began to write verse when quite young. 

In 1851 she entered the Catholic Church, and as a result her writ- 
ing heightened in spirituality to such extent as to rise, at times, into 
the purely devotional—as in Thankfulness, for instance, which is 
included in more than one hymn book. 

Attracting the attention of Charles Dickens, then editor of House- 
hold Words, quite independently of her father’s influence—he was 
one of Dickens’ intimate friends—she became a regular contributor 
to that magazine, occasionally publishing her work also in All the 
Year Round. 

During the years from 1858 to 1860 her verse was collected and 
published in two series, called Legends and Lyrics, reaching a tenth 
edition by 1866. In 1862 she issued another volume, 4 Chaplet of 
Verses. Her work became extremely popular, the various volumes 
going through one edition after another in rapid succession, so that 


316 ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER 


by 1877, it is said, her popularity as a poet was second only to that 
of Tennyson. 

During her whole life she devoted much of her time and energy to 
work among the poor of London. Her death occurred in 1864 as 
the result of taxing her strength beyond its limits in the course of her 
charitable undertakings. 


A LEGEND 


I 


THe Monk was preaching: strong his earnest word, 
From the abundance of his heart he spoke, 
And the flame spread—in every soul that heard 
Sorrow and love and good resolve awoke :— 
‘The poor lay Brother, ignorant and old, 5 
Thanked God that he had heard such words of gold. 


II 


“Still let the glory, Lord, be Thine alone,” 

So prayed the Monk; his heart absorbed in praise: 
‘Thine be the glory: if my hands have sown 

The harvest ripened in Thy mercy’s rays, 10 
It was Thy Blessing, Lord, that made my word, 
Bring light and love to every soul that heard. 


Il 


“Oh Lord, I thank Thee that my feeble strength 
Has been so blest; that sinful hearts and cold 

Were melted at my pleading—knew at length 15 
How sweet Thy service and how safe Thy fold: 

While souls that loved Thee saw before them rise 

Still holier heights of loving sacrifice.” 


IV 


So prayed the Monk: when suddenly he heard 
An Angel speaking thus—“Know, oh my Son, 20 
Thy words had all been vain, but hearts were stirred, 
And saints were edified and sinners won 
By his, the poor lay Brother’s, humble aid 
Who sat upon the Pulpit stair and prayed.” 


THANKFULNESS 


CLEANSING FIRES 


Let thy gold be cast in the furnace, 
Thy red gold, precious and bright, 
Do not fear the hungry fire, 
With its caverns of burning light: 
And thy gold shall return more precious, 
Free from every spot and stain; 
For gold must be tried by fire, 
As a heart must be tried by pain! 


In the cruel fire of Sorrow 
Cast thy heart, do not faint or wail; 
Let thy hand be firm and steady, 
Do not let thy spirit quail: 
But wait till the trial is over, 
And take thy heart again; 
For as gold is tried by fire, 
So a heart must be tried by pain! 


I shall know by the gleam and glitter 
Of the golden chain you wear, 
By your heart’s calm strength in loving, 
Of the fire they have had to bear. 
Beat on, true heart, for ever; 
Shine bright, strong golden chain; 
And bless the cleansing fire, 
And the furnace of living pain! 


THANKFULNESS 


My Goo, I thank Thee Who hast made 
The Earth so bright; 

So full of splendor and of joy, 
Beauty and light; 

So many glorious things are here, 


Noble and right! 


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I thank Thee, too, that Thou hast made 
Joy to abound; 

So many gentle thoughts and deeds 
Circling us round 

That in the darkest spot of Earth 
Some love is found. 


I thank Thee more that all our joy 
Is touched with pain; 

That shadows fall on brightest hours; 
‘That thorns remain; 

So that Earth’s bliss may be our guide, 
And not our chain. 


For Thou Who knowest, Lord, how soon 
Our weak heart clings, 

Hast given us joys, tender and true, 
Yet all with wings, 

So that we see, gleaming on high, 
Diviner things! 


I thank Thee, Lord, that Thou hast kept 
The best in store; 

We have enough, yet not too much 
To long for more: 

A yearning for a deeper peace, 
Not known before. 


I thank Thee, Lord, that here our souls, 
Though amply blest, 

Can never find, although they seek, 
A perfect rest— 

Nor ever shall, until they lean 
On Jesus’ breast! 


A LEGEND OF PROVENCE 


THe lights extinguished, by the hearth I leant, 
Half weary with a listless discontent. 

The flickering giant-shadows, gathering near, 
Closed round me with a dim and silent fear. 


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A LEGEND OF PROVENCE 


All dull, all dark; save when the leaping flame, 
Glancing, lit up a Picture’s ancient frame. 
Above the hearth it hung. Perhaps the night, 
My foolish tremors, or the gleaming light, 
Lent power to that Portrait dark and quaint— 
A Portrait such as Rembrandt loved to paint— 
The likeness of a Nun. I seemed to trace 

A world of sorrow in the patient face, 

In the thin hands folded across her breast— 
Its own and the room’s shadow hid the rest. 

I gazed and dreamed, and the dull embers stirred, 
Till an old legend that I once had heard 

Came back to me; linked to the mystic gloom 
Of that dark Picture in the ghostly room. 


In the far south, where clustering vines are hung; 
Where first the old chivalric lays were sung, 


Where earliest smiled that gracious child of France, 


Angel and knight and fairy, called Romance, 

I stood one day. The warm blue June was spread 
Upon the earth; blue summer overhead, 

Without a cloud to fleck its radiant glare, 
Without a breath to stir its sultry air. 

All still, all silent, save the sobbing rush 

Of rippling waves, that lapsed in silver hush 


Upon the beach where, glittering towards the strand, 


‘The purple Mediterranean kissed the land. 


All still, all peaceful; when a convent chime 
Broke on the mid-day silence for a time, 

Then trembling into quiet, seemed to cease, 

In deeper silence and more utter peace. 

So as I turned to gaze, where gleaming white, 
Half hid by shadowy trees from passers’ sight, 
The Convent lay, one who had dwelt for long 
In that fair home of ancient tale and song, 
Who knew the story of each cave and hill, 
And every haunting fancy lingering still 
Within the land, spake thus to me, and told 
The Convent’s treasured Legend, quaint and old: 


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Long years ago, a dense and flowering wood, 

Still more concealed where the white convent stood, 

Borne on its perfumed wings the title came: 45 
“Our Lady of the Hawthorns” is its name. 

Then did that bell, which still rings out to-day, 

Bid all the country rise, or eat, or pray. 

Before that convent shrine, the haughty knight 

Passed the lone vigil of his perilous fight ; 50 
For humbler cottage strife or village brawl, 

‘The Abbess listened, prayed, and settled all. 

Young hearts that came, weighed down by love or wrong, 
Left her kind presence comforted and strong. 

Each passing pilgrim, and each beggar’s right 55 
Was food, and rest, and shelter for the night. 

But, more than this, the Nuns could well impart 

The deepest mysteries of the healing art; 

Their store of herbs and simples was renowned, 

And held in wondering faith for miles around. 60 
Thus strife, love, sorrow, good and evil fate, 

Found help and blessing at the convent gate. 


Of all the nuns, no heart was half so light, 

No eyelids veiling glances half as bright, 

No step that glided with such noiseless feet, 65 
No face that looked so tender or so sweet, 

No voice that rose in choir so pure, so clear, 

No heart to all the others half so dear, 

So surely touched by others’ pain or woe 

(Guessing the grief her young life could not know), 70 
No soul in childlike faith so undefiled, 

As Sister Angela’s, the ‘Convent Child.” 

For thus they loved to call her. She had known 

No home, no love, no kindred, save their own. 

An orphan, to their tender nursing given, 75 
Child, plaything, pupil, now the Bride of Heaven. 

And she it was who trimmed the lamp’s red light 

‘That swung before the altar, day and night; 

Her hands it was whose patient skill could trace 

The finest broidery, weave the costliest lace; SO 


A LEGEND OF PROVENCE 


But most of all, her first and dearest care, 

‘The office she would never miss or share, 

Was every day to weave fresh garlands sweet, 
To place before the shrine at Mary’s feet. 
Nature is bounteous in that region fair, 

For even winter has her blossoms there. 

Thus Angela loved to count each feast the best, 
By telling with what flowers the shrine was dressed. 
In pomp supreme the countless Roses passed, 
Battalion on battalion thronging fast, 

Each with a different banner, flaming bright, 
Damask, or striped, or crimson, pink, or white, 
Until they bowed before a new born queen, 

And the pure virgin Lily rose serene. 

Though Angela always thought the Mother blest 
Must love the time of her own hawthorn best, 
Each evening through the year, with equal care, 
She placed her flowers, then kneeling down in prayer, 
As their faint perfume rose before the shrine, 
So rose her thoughts, as pure and as divine. 

She knelt until the shades grew dim without, 
Till one by one the altar lights shone out, 

Till one by one the Nuns, like shadows dim, 
Gathered around to chant their vesper hymn; 
Her voice then led the music’s winged flight, 
And “Ave, Maris Stella’ filled the night. 


But wherefore linger on those days of peace? 


When storms draw near, then quiet hours must cease. 


War, cruel war, defaced the land, and came 

So near the Convent with its breath of flame, 

That, seeking shelter, frightened peasants fled, 
Sobbing out tales of coming fear and dread. 

Till after a fierce skirmish, down the road, 

One night came straggling soldiers, with their load 
Of wounded, dying comrades; and the band, 

Half pleading, yet as if they could command, 
Summoned the trembling Sisters, craved their care, 
Then rode away, and left the wounded there. 


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But soon compassion bade all fear depart, 

And bidding every Sister do her part, 120 

Some prepare simples, healing salves, or bands, 

The Abbess chose the more experienced hands, 

‘To dress the wounds needing most skilful care; 

Yet even the youngest Novice took her share. 

To Angela, who had but ready will 125 

And tender pity, yet no special skill, 

Was given the charge of a young foreign knight, 

Whose wounds were painful, but whose danger slight. 

Day after day she watched beside his bed, 

And first in hushed-repose the hours fled: 130 

His feverish moans alone the silence stirred, 

Or her soft voice, uttering some pious word. 

At last the fever left him; day by day 

‘The hours, no longer silent, passed away. 

What could she speak of? First, to still his plaints, 135 

She told him legends of the martyred Saints; 

Described the pangs, which, through God’s plenteous grace, 

Had gained their souls so high and bright a place. 

This pious artifice soon found success— 

Or so she fancied—for he murmured less. 140 

So she described the glorious pomp sublime, 

In which the chapel shone at Easter time, 

The Banners, Vestments, gold, and colors bright, 

Counted how many tapers gave their light; 

Then, in minute detail went on to say, 145 

How the High Altar looked on Christmas-day: 

The kings and shepherds, all in green and red, 

And a bright star of jewels overhead. 

‘Then told the sign by which they all had seen, 

How even nature loved to greet her Queen, 150 

For, when Our Lady’s last procession went 

Down the long garden, every head was bent, 

And, rosary in hand, each Sister prayed ; 

As the long floating banners were displayed, 

‘They struck the hawthorn boughs, and showers and show- 
ers 155 

Of buds and blossoms strewed her way with flowers. 


A LEGEND OF PROVENCE 


The knight unwearied listened ; till at last, 

He too described the glories of his past; 
Tourney, and joust, and pageant bright and fair, 
And all the lovely ladies who were there. 

But half incredulous she heard. Could this— 
This be the world? this place of love and bliss! 


Where then was hid the strange and hideous charm, 


That never failed to bring the gazer harm? 
She crossed herself, yet asked, and listened still, 
And still the knight described with all his skill 
The glorious world of joy, all joys above, 
Transfigured in the golden mist of love. 


Spread, spread your wings, ye angel guardians bright, 
And shield these dazzling phantoms from her sight! 


But no; days passed, matins and vespers rang, 
And still the quiet Nuns toiled, prayed and sang, 
And never guessed the fatal, coiling net 

Which every day drew near, and nearer yet, 
Around their darling; for she went and came 
About her duties, outwardly the same. 

The same? ah, no! even when she knelt to pray, 
Some charméd dream kept all her heart away. 

So days went on, until the convent gate 

Opened one night. Who durst go forth so late? 
Across the moonlit grass, with stealthy tread, 
Two silent, shrouded figures passed and fled. 
And all was silent, save the moaning seas, 

That sobbed and pleaded, and a wailing breeze 
That sighed among the perfumed hawthorn trees. 


What need to tell that dream so bright and brief, 
Of joy unchequered by a dread of grief? 

What need to tell how all such dreams must fade, 
Before the slow, foreboding, dreaded shade, 

That floated nearer, until pomp and pride, 
Pleasure and wealth, were summoned to her side, 
To bid, at least, the noisy hours forget, 

And clamor down the whispers of regret. 


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Still Angela strove to dream, and strove in vain; 
Awakened once, she could not sleep again. 

She saw, each day and hour, more worthless grown 
‘The heart for which she cast away her own; 

And her soul learnt, through bitterest inward strife, 
The slight, frail love for which she wrecked her life, 
The phantom for which all her hope was given, 

The cold bleak earth for which she bartered heaven! 
But all in vain; would even the tenderest heart 

Now stoop to take so poor an outcast’s part? 


Years fled, and she’ grew reckless more and more, 
Until the humblest peasant closed his door, 

And where she passed, fair dames, in scorn and pride, 
Shuddered, and drew their rustling robes aside. 

At last a yearning seemed to fill her soul, 

A longing that was stronger than control: 

Once more, just once again, to see the place 

‘That knew her young and innocent; to retrace 

The long and weary southern path; to gaze 

Upon the haven of her childish days; 

Once more beneath the convent roof to lie; 

Once more to look upon her home—and die! 

Weary and worn—her comrades, chill remorse 

And black despair, yet a strange silent force 

Within her heart, that drew her more and more— 
Onward she crawled, and begged from door to door. 
Weighed down with weary days, her failing strength 
Grew less each hour, till one day’s dawn at length, 
As first its rays flooded the world with light, 
Showed the broad waters, glittering blue and bright, 
And where, amid the leafy hawthorn wood, 

Just as of old the quiet cloister stood. 

Would any know her? Nay, no fear. Her face 
Had lost all trace of youth, of joy, of grace, 

Of the pure happy soul they used to know— 

The novice Angela—so long ago. 

She rang the convent bell. The well-known sound 
Smote on her heart, and bowed her to the ground, 


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A LEGEND OF PROVENCE 


And she, who had not wept for long dry years, 
Felt the strange rush of unaccustomed tears; 
Terror and anguish seemed to check her breath, 
And stop her heart. Oh God! could this be death? 
Crouching against the iron gate, she laid 

Her weary head against the bars, and prayed: 

But nearer footsteps drew, then seemed to wait ; 
And then she heard the opening of the grate, 

And saw the withered face, on which awoke 

Pity and sorrow, as the portress spoke, 

And asked the stranger’s bidding: ‘“T'ake me in,” 
She faltered, “Sister Monica, from sin, 

And sorrow, and despair, that will not cease; 

Oh, take me in, and let me die in peace!” 

With soothing words the Sister bade her wait, 
Until she brought the key to unbar the gate. 

The beggar tried to thank her as she lay, 

And heard the echoing footsteps die away. 

But what soft voice was that which sounded near, 
And stirred strange trouble in her heart to hear? 
She raised her head ; she saw—she seemed to know— 
A face that came from long, long years ago: 
Herself; yet not as when she fled away, 

The young and blooming novice, fair and gay, 
But a grave woman, gentle and serene: 

The outcast knew it—what she might have been. 
But, as she gazed and gazed, a radiance bright 
Filled all the place with strange and sudden light; 
The Nun was there no longer, but instead, 

A figure with a circle round its head, 

A ring of glory; and a face, so meek, 

So soft, so tender. . . . Angela strove to speak, 
And stretched her hands out, crying, “Mary mild, 
Mother of mercy, help me!—help your child!” 
And Mary answered, ‘‘From thy bitter past, 
Welcome, my child! oh, welcome home at last! 

I filled thy place. Thy flight is known to none, 
For all thy daily duties I have done; 


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Gathered thy flowers, and prayed, and sung and slept; 270 
Didst thou not know, poor child, thy place was kept? 
Kind hearts are here; yet would the tenderest one 

Have limits to its mercy: God has none. 

And man’s forgiveness may be true and sweet, 

But yet he stoops to give it. More complete 275 
Is Love that lays forgiveness at thy feet, 

And pleads with thee to raise it. Only Heaven 

Means crowned, not vanquished, when it says ‘Forgiven!’ ” 
Back hurried Sister Monica; but where 

Was the poor beggar she left lying there? 280 
Gone; and she searched in vain, and sought the place 

For that wan woman, with the piteous face: 

But only Angela at the gateway stood, 

Laden with hawthorn blossoms from the wood. 

And never did a day pass by again, 285 
But the old portress, with a sigh of pain, 

Would sorrow for her loitering: with a prayer 

That the poor beggar, in her wild despair, 

Might not have come to any ill; and when 

She ended, “God forgive her!’ humbly then 290 
Did Angela bow her head, and say, “Amen!” 

How pitiful her heart was! all could trace 

Something that dimmed the brightness of her face 

After that day, which none had seen before; 

Not trouble—but a shadow—nothing more. 295 


Years passed away. ‘Then, one dark day of dread 

Saw all the sisters kneeling round a bed, 

Where Angela lay dying; every breath 

Struggling beneath the heavy hand of death. 

But suddenly a flush lit up her cheek, 300 
She raised her wan right hand, and strove to speak. 

In sorrowing love they listened; not a sound 

Or sigh disturbed the utter silence round. 

The very tapers’ flames were scarcely stirred, 

In such hushed awe the sisters knelt and heard. 305 
And through that silence Angela told her life: ! 
Her sin, her flight; the sorrow and the strife, 


KYRIE ELEISON 


And the return; and then clear, low and calm, 

“Praise God for me, my sisters’; and the psalm 

Rang up to heaven, far and clear and wide, 

Again and yet again, then sank and died; 

While her white face had such a smile of peace, 

‘They saw she never heard the music cease; 

And weeping sisters laid her in her tomb, 

Crowned with a wreath of perfumed hawthorn bloom. 
And thus the Legend ended. It may be 

Something is hidden in the mystery, 

Besides the lesson of God’s pardon shown, 

Never enough believed, or asked, or known. 

Have we not all, amid life’s petty strife, 

Some pure ideal of a noble life 

That once seemed possible? Did we not hear 

The flutter of its wings, and feel it near, 

And just within our reach? It was. And yet 

We lost it in this daily jar and fret, 

And now live idle in a vague regret. 

But still our place is kept, and it will wait, 

Ready for us to fill it, soon or late: 

No star is ever lost we once have seen, 

We always may be what we might have been. 


Since Good, though only thought, has life and breath, 


God’s life—can always be redeemed from death; 
And evil, in its nature, is decay, 

And any hour can blot it all away; 

The hopes that lost in some far distance seem, 
May be the truer life, and this the dream. 


KYRIE ELEISON 


IN Joy, in pain, in sorrow, 
Father, Thy hand we see; 

But some among Thy children 
Deny this faith and Thee. 

They will not ask Thy mercy, 
But we kneel for them in prayer: 


Se. 


310 


315 


320 


325 


330 


335 


328 


ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER 


Are they not still Thy children? 
Pity, oh God! and spare. 
Thy peace, oh Lord, has never 
On their desolate pathway shone, 
Darkness is all around them: 
Kyrie Eleison! 


For them, the starry heavens 
No hymn of worship raise; 

For them, earth’s innocent flowers 
Breathe not Thy silent praise ; 

In heaven they know no Saviour, 
No Father, and no Friend, 

And life is all they hope for, 
And death they call the end; 

Their eyes, oh Lord! are blinded 
To the glories of the sun, 

To the shining of the sea star— 
Kyrie Eleison! 


By the love Thy saints have shown Thee, 
And the sorrows they have borne, 

Leave not these erring creatures 
‘To wander thus forlorn. 

By Thy tender name of Saviour,— 
The name they have denied ; 

By Thy bitter death and passion, 
And the Cross which they deride; 

By the anguish Thou hast suffered, 
And the glory Thou hast won; 

By Thy love and by Thy pity— 
Christe Eleison! 


Pray for them, glorious seraphs, 
And ye, bright angel band, 

Who chant His praises ever, 
And in His presence stand ; 


IO 


15 


20 


25 


30 


35 


40 


OUR DAILY BREAD 329 


And thou, oh gentle Mother, 
Queen of the starry sky; 
Ye Saints whose toils are over, 
Join your voices to our cry— 
In Thy terror or Thy mercy, 45 
Call them ere life is done, 
For His sake who died to save them, 
Kyrie Eleison! 


OUR DAILY BREAD 


GIVE us our daily Bread, 
Oh God, the bread of strength! 
For we have learnt to know 
How weak we are at length. 
As children we are weak, 5 
As children must be fed— 
Give us Thy Grace, oh Lord, 
To be our daily Bread. 


Give us our daily Bread :— 
The bitter bread of grief. 10 
We sought earth’s poisoned feasts 
For pleasure and relief; 
We sought her deadly fruits, 
But now, oh God, instead, 
We ask Thy healing grief 15 
To be our daily Bread. 


Give us our daily Bread 
To cheer our fainting soul; 
The feast of comfort, Lord, 
And peace, to make us whole: 20 
For we are sick of tears 
The useless tears we shed ;— 
Now give us comfort, Lord, 


To be our daily Bread. 


330 JUSTIN McCARTHY 


Give us our daily Bread, 25 
The Bread of Angels, Lord, 
By us, so many times, 
Broken, betrayed, adored: 
His Body and His Blood ;— 
The feast that Jesus spread: 30 
Give Him—our life, our all— 


To be our daily Bread! 


JUS I Nwavic CAN RG Eling 


1830—1912 


Justin McCarthy, journalist, politician, novelist, and historian, was 
born in Ireland in 1830. He was educated in a private school in 
Cork and at the age of eighteen became a member of the staff of the 
Cork Examiner. Later he went to Liverpool as a journalist, and 
finally to London, where he joined the staff of the Morning Star as 
parliamentary reporter. In 1864 he became editor of the Morning 
Star, a position which he held until 1868. 

His editorship having brought him some degree of prominence, he 
was much in demand as a lecturer and as a contributor to magazines. 
And, in the end, his prestige growing as his abilities developed, he be- 
came a member of Parliament, retaining his seat until 1896. 

In addition to politics, however, he was intensely interested in 
authorship, devoting perhaps more than half his time to it. His first 
book, The Waterdale Neighbors, a novel, was published in 1867 and 
was successful enough to encourage him to proceed. After that time, 
hardly a year passed that did not bring forth another volume by him. 
His works range chiefly among the forms of the novel, the essay, 
biography, and history, his most noteworthy accomplishments, per- 
haps, being, The History of Our Own Times, The Life of Leo XIII, 
A Fair Saxon,,and Portraits of the Sixties. 


From PORTRAITS OF THE SIXTIES? 


THE BROTHERS NEWMAN 


MONG the portraits from the sixties about and around 
which I am writing in this volume is one of Cardinal 
Newman. His was a life of absolute austerity, but 

there was a certain sweet simplicity in his manner. My personal 


"Reprinted by the kind permission of Harper & Brothers, owners of the 
copyright. , 


PORTRAITS OF THE SIXTIES hes 


acquaintance with him was very slight, but I had many oppor- 
tunities of listening to him and of observing his bearing and his 
ways. I saw him for the first time before the opening of the 
sixties. While I was living in Liverpool, just before the Crimean 
War, Newman delivered there his famous series of lectures on 
what was then regarded as the Eastern Question, the existence of 
the Ottoman power in Europe. ‘There is no need to go very 
deeply into that question at the present time of day; we must all 
of us have made up our minds long ago on the whole subject, 
whatever our conclusions may happen to be. I need only say 
that Newman’s views might have been regarded just then as a 
prophetic protest against the policy which was leading to the 
Crimean War. Newman regarded the settlement of the Otto- 
man Turk in Europe as, from first to last, a mere calamity to 
Christian civilization. A man of Newman’s character and train- 
ing could not make himself the advocate of any policy designed 
to expel the Turks by force from the European territories they 
had occupied, but he made himself the earnest and uncompromising 
opponent of any policy setting itself to maintain and strengthen 
the ill-fated dominion of the Ottoman power. Newman’s expo- 
sitions and warnings had, it is needless to say, no effect whatever 
on the majority of Englishmen at the time, but he uttered no 
warning which subsequent events did not fully and strictly justify. 
The lectures were singularly impressive, although they made no 
pretension to the graces and the thrilling tones of eloquence. The 
language seemed unstudied, but was always exquisitely chosen, 
every word expressing precisely the idea it was intended to convey, 
and no more, and there were many passages which lived long in 
the memories of those who heard them spoken. ‘The lectures 
were delivered with perfect ease, and the voice, although not pow- 
erful, could make itself heard without effort in any ordinary as- 
sembly. It had certain tones of melancholy reflectiveness which 
seemed appropriate to a warning only too certain to be made, for 
the time at least, in vain. 

No man was a more accomplished master than Newman of all 
the resources the English language can command. I heard him 
speak and preach on many later occasions, and he always seemed 
to me to have a certain distinct faculty of eloquence which has 
nothing to do with mere rhetoric, but is sincere and lofty thought 


332 JUSTIN McCARTHY 


embodied in the most appropriate form of phrase. In some of the 
arts and the gifts that go to make a great orator or preacher, 
Newman was strikingly deficient. His bearing was not impres- 
sive; his gaunt, emaciated figure, his sharp eagle-face, his eyes of 
quiet meditation, were rather likely to repel than to attract those 
who heard and saw him for the first time. But the matter of his 
discourse, whether sermon, speech, or lecture, was always cap- 
tivating, and if the language had any defect it might be that it 
was perhaps a little overweighted with thought, and thus might 
seem hardly suited to attract from the beginning a popular audi- 
ence. But in speaking, as in writing, he soon made it evident that 
he was an influence—I do not know how better to express my 
meaning—which must command attention by its own force. Both 
as a speaker and as a writer he showed himself richly endowed 
with a keen, pungent, satirical humor, while there was, on the 
other hand, a subtle vein of poetry and of pathos suffusing all his 
argument, his illustration, and his appeal. 

Newman’s brother Francis was led away, as most of my readers 
will remember, into a field of thought and activity strangely un- 
like that into which faith and destiny had conducted him who was 
to become a cardinal and a leading spirit in the Church of Rome. 
I cannot think of the brothers Newman without recalling to 
memory a deeply interesting passage in Thackeray's Pendennis. 
Arthur Pendennis and his comrade George Warrington have a 
dispute about men and beliefs. ‘Ihe truth,” Pendennis asks— 
“where is the truth? Show it me. I see it on both sides. I see 
it in this man, who worships by Act of Parliament, and is re- 
warded with a silk apron and five thousand a year; in that man, 
too, who, driven fatally by the remorseless logic of his creed, 
gives up everything—friends, fame, dearest ties, closest vanities, 
the respect of an army of churchmen, the recognized position of 
a leader—and passes over, truth-impelled, to the enemy in whose 
ranks he is ready to serve henceforth as a nameless private soldier; 
I see the truth in that man as I do in his brother, whose logic 
drives him to quite a different conclusion, and who, after having 
passed a life in vain endeavors to reconcile an irreconcilable book, 
flings it at last down in despair, and declares, with tearful eyes 
and hands up to heaven, his revolt and recantation.” Of course 
every reader of Pendennis knew at the time when the book was 


PORTRAITS OF THE SIXTIES 333 


published who were the two brothers of whom this touching de- 
scription was given. Pendennis made its appearance in volume 
form some ten years before the period which the portraits in this 
book are intended to illustrate. But the parting of the two 
brothers only grew wider and wider as time went on, and they 
never can be said to have worked together during the remainder 
of their lives. 

About the time with which this book opens I became acquainted 
with Francis Newman and was brought much more into inter- 
course with him than it was ever my fortune to be with the great 
Cardinal. ‘The reason for this was that John Henry Newman 
kept, as a rule, quite apart from political movements, and that 
Francis Newman took an active share in the conduct of many 
political organizations. I was then beginning to be much en- 
gaged in English political life as well as in journalism, and I thus 
had many opportunities of meeting with Francis Newman. He 
was a man of great intellect and of very noble purpose, but he 
never acquired in his own sphere anything like the influence his 
brother exercised in the sphere to which his conscientious convic- 
tions had called him. I am sure my readers will quite understand 
that I am not now entering into any comparison or contrast of 
these two far-divided spheres. With questions of religious faith 
these chapters have nothing to do. My endeavor is to put myself 
for the time into the position of Arthur Pendennis, and to regard 
the two brothers as equally sincere followers of that which each 
believed to be the truth. But I have always thought that Francis 
Newman, while acting with the most sincere and unselfish mo- 
tives, never succeeded in accomplishing as much by his intellect 
and his perseverance as might have been expected from one so 
richly endowed with noble qualities of mind and heart. 

Francis Newman lent his best energy to the support of many a 
great political cause which time and events have since proved to 
be right, in the judgment of most thinking men at home and 
abroad. But unquestionably he sometimes wasted too much of 
his intellectual capacity on what might be called the eccentricities 
of political and social endeavor. ‘There were all manner of new 
questions, political and social problems as they would now be 
called, coming up at the time, and Francis Newman did not always 
seem able to distinguish between a creed and a crotchet. ‘The 


334 JUSTIN McCARTHY 


mere charm of novelty appeared to have an undue fascination for 
him. He was tempted too often into the frittering away of his 
remarkable intellectual powers over some new idea, as it was 
called, which turned out to be merely an old and exploded idea, 
recalled to a semblance of cohesion and reality by the futile ener- 
gies of some sect or group of belated reformers. “There was a 
time when nine out of ten men in London who took any interest 
in public affairs were apt to set down Francis Newman as hope- 
lessly given over to crotchets, while the tenth man, admiring how- 
ever much his character and his capacity, was sometimes grieved 
and sometimes angry that both together did not make him a 
greater power in the national life. 

The last time I ever heard Francis Newman address a public 
meeting was at a small gathering of men and women in London 
who were engaged in organizing an opposition to some measure 
before Parliament, the purpose of which has long passed out of 
my memory. ‘The meeting was held in Exeter Hall, not in the 
vast room where oratorios were performed and huge public as- 
semblages are gathered together to discuss some question of na- 
tional or international importance, but in a little, subterranean 
room. ‘The attendance was not nearly up to the size of the room 
itself, limited though that was. ‘There on the platform sat the 
good and gifted and fearless Francis Newman, and immediately 
around him were some dozen embodied and living crotchets and 
crazes. “There was this learned physician who had renounced 
his medical practice and was holding communication regularly 
with the spirit-world. There was that other eminent personage 
who had long been trying in vain to teach an apathetic govern- 
ment how to cure crime on purely phrenological principles. There 
was Smith, who was opposed to all wars; Brown, who firmly 
believed that every disease known to poor humanity came from the 
use of salt; Jones, who had at his own expense put into circulation 
thousands of copies of his work against the employment of medical 
men in cases where the ailments of women were concerned. We 
just wanted, on this memorable occasion, the awful persons who 
proved to you that the earth was all a flat, and the indefatigable 
ladies who expounded their claims to the British crown, then 
feloniously usurped by Queen Victoria. 

Nothing came of the demonstration, whatever it was, and [ 


PORTRAITS OF THE SIXTIES 335 


have only mentioned it here just to illustrate the extraordinary 
contrast between the commanding position to which Francis New- 
man, with his intellect, his energy, and his lofty purposes, might 
have attained, and the position’ to which from the highest and 
most unselfish motives he had allowed himself to descend. I 
could not help admiring the man, as much in these later days of 
his career as in that earlier time when he stood forth the great 
and recognized advocate of so many a noble cause. Surely the 
parting of the ways had brought these two gifted brothers very 
far apart. John Henry Newman had by this time become a 
prince of the Church of Rome, and was one of the most con- 
spicuous and, in the strictest sense, one of the most influential men 
of his age. Yet every one who knew the two brothers must have 
known that mere personal ambition had influenced no more the 
one, who had obtained so lofty and commanding a position, than 
the other, who had fallen away from public life and become merely 
the futile advocate of so many a lost and unimportant cause. 
Both brothers had eminently the genius of the controversialist, 
both followed alike faithfully the light of the guiding star which 
his conscience recognized, and it is something of comfort to feel 
sure that both will alike have a place of honor in the history of 
England’s intellectual development. 

May I be allowed to say that I think Cardinal Newman did 
much good even to that Church from which he withdrew? He 
was really the main-spring of that movement which proposed to 
rescue the Church from apathy, from mere quiescence, from the 
perfunctory discharge of formal duties, and to quicken her once 
again with the spirit of a priesthood, to arouse her to the living 
work, spiritual and moral, physical and mental, of her ecclesias- 
tical mission. “Throughout the English Church in general there 
has been surely a higher spirit of work since that famous Oxford 
Movement, in which John Henry Newman took so influential a 
part. I think the influence of that English Church has been more 
active, more beneficent, more human and at the same time more 
spiritual since that sudden and startling impulse was given. ‘The 
story of these two brothers is, on the whole, as strange a chapter 
as any I know in the history of human intellect and creed. It may 
at least teach us a lesson of toleration, if nothing better. The very 
pride of intellect itself can hardly pretend to look down with mere 


336 JAMES RYDER RANDALL 


scorn upon beliefs which carried off in contrary directions these 
two Newmans. ‘The sternest bigot could hardly refuse to admit 
that truthfulness, self-sacrifice, and devotion might abide outside 
the limits of his own creed when he remembered the high and 
noble example of pure, true, and disinterested lives which John 
Henry and Francis W. Newman have alike given in their different 
ways to their fellow-men. 


JOAUMOERS “WORIYOD BeRe SROATNeD A ees 
1839—1908 


James Ryder Randall, teacher, journalist, and poet, was born in 
Baltimore, Maryland, in 1839. He studied at Georgetown Univer- 
sity but did not take a degree. For a number of years he taught 
English literature at Poydras College in Louisiana. 

Maryland, My Maryland, his most popular poem, was composed 
in 1861, just after he had heard of the rioting in Baltimore between 
Federal troops and Southern sympathizers, The poem appeared in 
the New Orleans Sunday Delta and was immediately widely re- 
printed. 

After the war Randall became a journalist, serving in several edi- 
torial capacities, chiefly in Washington. He continued to write verse, 
however, although nothing of his later composition ever quite equalled 
the quality of his first stirring poem. 


MARYLAND, MY MARYLAND 


THE despot’s heel is on thy shore, 
Maryland! 
His torch is at thy temple door, 
Maryland! 
Avenge the patriotic gore 5 
That flecked the streets of Baltimore, 
And be the battle queen of yore, 
Maryland! My Maryland! 


*Selections from the work of James Ryder Randall are reprinted from 
Maryland, My Maryland by permission of, and arrangement with, the 
John Murphy Company, owners of the copyright. 


MARYLAND, MY MARYLAND alow 


Hark to a wand’ring son’s appeal, 
Maryland! 10 
My mother State! to thee I kneel, 
Maryland! 
For life and death, for woe and weal, 
Thy peerless chivalry reveal, 
And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, 15 
Maryland! My Maryland! 


Thou wilt not cower in the dust, 
Maryland! 
Thy beaming sword shall never rust, 
Maryland! 20 
Remember Carroll’s sacred trust, 
Remember Howard’s warlike thrust 
And all thy slumberers with the just, 
Maryland! My Maryland! 


Come! ’tis the red dawn of the day, 25 
Maryland! 
Come with thy panoplied artay, 
Maryland! 
With Ringgold’s spirit for the fray, 
With Watson’s blood at Monterey, 30 
With fearless Lowe and dashing May, 
Maryland! My Maryland! 


Come! for thy shield is bright and strong, 
Maryland! 

Come! for thy dalliance does thee wrong, 35 
Maryland! 

Come to thine own heroic throng, 

That stalks with liberty along, 

And chant the dauntless slogan-song 


Maryland! My Maryland! 40 


Dear Mother! burst the tyrant’s chain, 
Maryland! 

Virginia should not call in vain, 
Maryland! 


538 


JAMES RYDER RANDALL 


She meets her sisters on the plain— 

“Sic semper!” ’tis the proud refrain 

That baffles minions back again, 
Maryland! My Maryland! 


I see the blush upon thy cheek, 
Maryland! 

But thou wast ever bravely meek, 
Maryland! 

But lo! there surges forth a shriek 

From hill to hill, from creek to creek— 

Potomac calls to Chesapeake, 
Maryland! My Maryland! 


Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, 
Maryland! 

Thou wilt not crook to his control, 
Maryland! 


Better the fire upon thee roll, 


Better the blade, the shot, the bowl, 


Than crucifixion of the soul, 


Maryland! My Maryland! 


I hear the distant thunder hum, 
Maryland! 

The Old Line’s bugle, fife, and drum, 
Maryland! 

She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb— 

Huzza! she spurns the Northern scum! 


She breathes! she burns, she’ll come! she’ll come! 


Maryland! My Maryland! 


WHY THE ROBIN’S BREAST IS RED 


THE Saviour, bowed beneath his cross, 
Clomb up the dreary hill, 

While from the agonizing wreath 
Ran many a crimson rill. 


45 


50 


55 


60 


65 


70 


RESURGAM 


The brawny Roman thrust him on 
With unrelenting hand— 

Till, staggering slowly ’mid the crowd, 
He fell upon the sand. 


A little bird that warbled near, 
That memorable day, 

Flitted around and strove to wrench 
One single thorn away; 

‘The cruel spike impaled his breast, 
And thus, ’tis sweetly said, 

The Robin wears his silver vest 
Incarnadined with red. 


Ah Jesu! Jesu! Son of Man! 
My dolor and my sighs 
Reveal the lesson taught by this 
Winged Ishmael of the skies. 
I, in the palace of delight, 
Or caverns of despair, 


Have plucked no thorns from Thy dear brow, 


But planted thousands there! 


RESURGAM 


‘TEACH me, my God, to bear my cross 
As Thine was borne; 

Teach me to make of every loss 
A crown of thorn. 


Give me Thy patience and Thy strength 


With every breath, 
Until my lingering days at length 
Shall welcome death. 


Dear Jesus, I believe that thou 
Did’st rise again, 

Instil the spirit in me now 
‘That conquers pain. 


339 


10 


15 


20 


10 


349 


JAMES RYDER RANDALL 


Give me the grace to cast aside 
All vain desire, 

All the fierce throbbing of a pride 
That flames like fire. 


Give me the calm that Dante wrought 
From sensual din; 

The peace that errant Wolsey sought 
From stalwart sin. 

I seek repose upon Thy breast 
With child-like prayer; 

Oh let me find the heavenly rest 
And mercy there! 


If I have, in rebellious ways, 
Profaned my life; 

If I have filled my daring days 
With worldly strife; 

If I have shunned the narrow path 
In crime to fall— 

Lead me from th’ abode of wrath 


And pardon all! 


Banished from Thee! where shall I find 
For my poor soul 

A safe retreat from storms that blind, 
Or seas that roli? 

Come to me, Christ, ere I, forlorn, 
Sink ’neath the wave, 

And on this blessed Easter morn 
A lost one save! 


PEACE TO THE DEAD 


PEACE to the dead; though the skies are chill, 


And the Norse wind waileth coarse and shrill. 


Peace to the dead! though the living shake 
The globe, with their brawling battle-quake. 


15 


20 


25 


30 


35 


40 


PEACE TO THE DEAD 341 


Peace to the dead! though peace is not 5 
In the regal dome or the pauper cot. 

Peace to the dead ; there’s peace, we trust, 

With the pale dreamers in the dust. 


Roses and pansies guard them well, 

Tingeing triumphant immortelle, 10 
Minions of Doubt, we bend the knee 

To the kings and queens of mystery. 

Storm and sunshine, mist and rain, 

Do ye mock at their marble doors in vain? 

And ye, sepulchral cliffs of night, 15 
Do ye rise to appeal their shadowed sight? 

O Darkness! thy mission is not just 

To the pale dreamers in the dust. 


Peace to the dead! afar and near, 

In folds of satin or beggar’s bier; 20 
Whether they sleep in the kirk-yard ground} 

Or bleach in the gullied seas profound ; 

Garnered by Time’s dull scimitar, 

Or cleft in the scarlet fields of war; 

Godless is he who breaketh the crust 25 
O’er the pale dreamers in the dust. 


ACB Re AUN ae wi Rey WAIN: 
(1839—1886) 


Abram J. Ryan, poet, editor, priest, and army chaplain, was born 
in Norfolk, Virginia, in 1839. Trained for the priesthood from the 
beginning, he was ordained just at the start of the Civil War. He 
became a chaplain in the Confederate army and served throughout the 
war. 

At the time of the defeat of the Confederacy he composed his 
Conquered Banner, a poem which was instantly accepted by the 
South as voicing its sentiments at the destruction of its hopes. Dur- 


*Selections from the work of Abram J. Ryan are reprinted by permis- 
sion of, and arrangement with, P. J. Kenedy & Sons, owners of the copy- 
right. 


342 ABRAM J. RYAN 


ing the years following he continued to write verse, the greater part 
of which is permeated by rich imagery and a mysticism that are not 
easily forgotten. 

After the war, he served for some time as a priest in New Orleans, 
and became editor of The Star, a church weekly. Later he founded 
the Banner of the South, a religious and political weekly, in Augusta, 
Georgia. For many years he was looked upon as the poet laureate 
of the “Lost Cause.” 


SONG OF THE MYSTIC 


I waLk down the Valley of Silence— 
Down the dim, voiceless valley—alone! 

And I hear not the fall of a footstep 
Around me, save God’s and my own; 

And the hush of my heart is as holy 5 
As hovers where angels have flown! 


Long ago was I weary of voices 

Whose music my heart could not win; 
Long ago was I weary of noises 

That fretted my soul with their din; 10 
Long ago was I weary of places 

Where I met but the human—and sin. 


I walked in the world with the worldly; 
I craved what the world never gave; 

And I said: “In the world each Ideal, 15 
That shines like a star on life’s wave, 

Is wrecked on the shores of the Real, 
And sleeps like a dream in a grave.” 


And still did I pine for the Perfect, 

And still found the False with the True; 20 
I sought ’mid the Human for Heaven, 

But caught a mere glimpse of its Blue: 
And I wept when the clouds of the Mortal 

Veiled even that glimpse from my view. 


SONG OF THE MYSTIC 


And I toiled on, heart-tired of the Human, 

And I moaned ’mid the mazes of men, 
Till I knelt, long ago, at an altar 

And I heard a voice call me. Since then 
I walk down the Valley of Silence 

That lies far beyond mortal ken. 


Do thou ask what I found in the Valley? 
"Tis my Trysting Place with the Divine. 
And [I fell at the feet of the Holy, 
And above me a voice said: ‘‘Be mine.” 
And there rose from the depths of my spirit 
An echo—‘‘My heart shall be thine.” 


Do you ask how I live in the Valley? 
I weep—and I dream—and I pray. 

But my tears are as sweet as the dew-drops 
That fall on the roses in May; 

And my prayer, like a perfume from Censers, 
Ascendeth to God night and day. 


In the hush of the Valley of Silence 
I dream all the songs that I sing; 

And the music floats down the dim Valley, 
Till each finds a word for a wing, 

That to hearts, like the Dove of the Deluge, 
A message of Peace they may bring. 


But far on the deep there are billows 
That never shall break on the beach; 

And I have heard songs in the Silence— 
That never shall float into speech; 

And I have had dreams in the Valley 
Too lofty for language to reach. 


And I have seen Thoughts in the Valley— 
Ah me! how my spirit was stirred! 

And they wear holy veils on their faces, 
Their footsteps can scarcely be heard: 
They pass through the Valley like Virgins, 

Too pure for the touch of a word! 


343 
25 


30 


35 


40 


45 


50 


55 


60 


344 


ABRAM J. RYAN 


Do you ask me the place of the Valley, 
Ye hearts that are harrowed by Care? 
It lieth afar between mountains, 
And God and His angels are there: 
And one is the dark mount of Sorrow, 
And one the bright mountain of Prayer. 


MARCH OF THE DEATHLESS DEAD 


GATHER the sacred. dust 
Of the warriors tried and true, 
Who bore the flag of a Nation’s trust 
And fell in a cause, though lost, still just, 
And died for me and you. 


Gather them one and all, 
From the private to the chief; 
Come they from hovel or princely hall, 
They fell for us, and for them shall fall 
The tears of a Nation’s grief. 


Gather the corpses strewn 
O’er many a battle plain; 
From many a grave that lies so lone, 
Without a name and without a stone, 
Gather the Southern slain. 


We care not whence they came, 
Dear is their lifeless clay! 
Whether unknown, or known to fame, 
Their cause and country still the same; 
They died—and wore the Gray. 


Wherever the brave have died, 

They should not rest apart; 
Living, they struggled side by side, 
Why should the hand of Death divide 

A single heart from heart? 


65 


Iu 


15 


20 


25 


IN MEMORIAM 


Gather their scattered clay, 

Wherever it may rest; 
Just as they marched to the bloody fray, 
Just as they fell on the battle day, 

Bury them breast to breast. 


The foeman need not dread 

This gathering of the brave; 
Without sword or flag, and with soundless tread, 
We muster once more our deathless dead, 

Out of each lonely grave. 


The foeman need not frown, 
They all are powerless now; 
We gather them here and we lay them down, 
And tears and prayers are the only crown 
We bring to wreathe each brow. 


And the dead thus meet the dead, 
While the living o’er them weep; 
And the men by Lee and Stonewall led, 
And the hearts that once together bled, 

Together still shall sleep. 


IN MEMORIAM 


Tuou art sleeping, brother, sleeping 

In thy lonely battle grave; 
Shadows o’er the past are creeping, 
Death the reaper, still is reaping, 
Years have swept, and years are sweeping 
Many a memory from my keeping, 
But I’m waiting still, and weeping 

For my beautiful and brave. 


When the battle songs were chanted, 
And war’s stirring tocsin pealed, 
By those songs thy heart was haunted, 

And thy spirit, proud, undaunted, 


345 


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346. 


ABRAM J. RYAN 


Clamored wildly—wildly panted ; 
“Mother! let my wish be granted; 
I will ne’er be mocked and taunted 
That I fear to meet our vaunted 
Foeman on the bloody field. 


“They are thronging, mother! thronging, 
To a thousand fields of fame; 

Let me go—’tis wrong, and wronging 

God and thee to crush this longing; 

On the muster-roll of glory, 

In my country’s future story, 

On the field of battle gory 
I must consecrate my name. 


“Mother, gird my sword around me, 

Kiss thy soldier-boy ‘good-bye.’ ”’ 
In her arms she wildly wound thee, 
To thy birthland’s cause she bound thee, 
With fond prayers and blessings crowned thee, 
And she sobbed: “‘When foes surround thee, 
If you fall, Ill know they found thee 

Where the bravest love to die.” 


At the altar of their nation, 
Stood that mother and her son, 
He, the victim of oblation, 
Panting for his immolation ; 
She, in priestess’ holy station, 
Weeping words of consecration, 
While God smiled His approbation, 
Blessed the boy’s self-abnegation, 
Cheered the mother’s desolation, 
When the sacrifice was done. 


Forth, like many a noble other, 
Went he, whispering soft and low: 
“Good-bye—pray for me, my mother; 
Sister! kiss me—farewell, brother” ; 
And he strove his grief to smother. 


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IN MEMORIAM 


Forth, with footsteps firm and fearless, 

And his parting gaze was tearless 

Though his heart was lone and cheerless, 
Thus from all he loved to go. 


Lo! yon flag of freedom flashing 
In the sunny Southern sky: 
On, to death and glory dashing, 
On, where swords are clanging, clashing, 
On, where balls are crushing, crashing, 
On, mid perils dread, appalling, 
On, they’re falling, falling, falling, 
On, they’re growing fewer, fewer, 
On, their hearts beat all the truer, 

On, on, on, no fear, no falter, 

On, though round the battle-altar 
There were wounded victims moaning, 
There were dying soldiers groaning; 
On, right on, death’s danger braving, 
Warring where their flag was waving, 
While Baptismal blood was laving 
All that field of death and slaughter ; 
On, still on; that bloody lava 
Made them braver and made them braver, 
On, with never a halt or waver, 

On in battle—bleeding—bounding, 
While the glorious shout swept sounding, 
“We will win the day or die!” 


And they won it; routed—riven— 
Reeled the foemen’s proud array: 
‘They had struggled hard, and striven, 

Blood in torrents they had given, 
But their ranks, dispersed and driven, 
Fled, in sullenness, away. 


Many a heart was lonely lying 
That would never throb again; 


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ABRAM J. RYAN 


Some were dead, and some were dying; 
Those were silent, these were sighing; 
Thus to die alone, unattended, 
Unbewept and unbefriended, 

On that bloody battle-plain. 


When the twilight sadly, slowly 
Wrapped its mantle o’er them all, 
Thousands, thousands lying lowly, 
Hushed in silence deep and holy, 
‘There was one, his blood was flowing 
And his last of life was going, 
And his pulse faint, fainter beating 
Told his hours were few and fleeting; 
And his brow grew white and whiter, 
While his eyes grew strangely brighter; 
There he lay—like infant dreaming, 
With his sword beside him gleaming, 
For the hand in life that grasped it, 
True in death still fondly clasped it; 
There his comrades found him lying 
*Mid the heaps of dead and dying, 
And the sternest bent down weeping 
O’er the lonely sleeper sleeping ; 
Twas the midnight; stars shone round him, 
And they told us how they found him 
Where the bravest love to fall. 


Where the woods, like banners bending, 
Drooped in starlight and in gloom, 
There, when that sad night was ending, 

And the faint, far dawn was blending 
With the stars now fast descending; 
‘There they mute and mournful bore him, 
With the stars and shadows o’er him, 
And they laid him down—so tender— 
And the next day’s sun, in splendor, 
Flashed above my brother’s tomb. 


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A LEGEND 349 


MY BEADS 


SWEET blessed beads! I would not part 
With one of you for richest gem 
That gleams in kingly diadem; 

Ye know the history of my heart. 


For I have told you every grief 5 
In all the days of twenty years, 
And I have moistened you with tears, 

And in your decades found relief. 


Ah! time has fled, and friends have failed 
And joys have died; but in my needs 10 
Ye were my friends, my blessed beads! 

And ye consoled me when I wailed. 


For many and many a time, in grief, 

My weary fingers wandered round 

Thy circled chain, and always found 15 
In some Hail Mary sweet relief. 


How many a story you might tell 
Of inner life, to all unknown; 
I trusted you and you alone, 
But ah! ye keep my secrets well. 20 


Ye are the only chain I wear— 

A sign that I am but the slave, 

In life, in death, beyond the grave, 
Of Jesus and His Mother fair. 


A LEGEND 


HE WALKED alone beside the lonely sea, 
The slanting sunbeams fell upon His face, 
His shadow fluttered on the pure white sands 
Like the weary wing of a soundless prayer. 


350 ABRAM J. RYAN 


And He was, oh! so beautiful and fair! 5 
Brown sandals on His feet—His face downcast, 

As if He loved the earth more than the heav’ns. 

His face looked like His Mother’s—only hers 

Had not those strange serenities and stirs 

That paled or flushed His olive cheeks and brow. 10 
He wore the seamless robe His Mother made— 

And as He gathered it about His breast, 

‘The wavelets heard a sweet and gentle voice 

Murmur, “Oh! My Mother’—the white sands felt 

The touch of tender tears He wept the while. 15 
He walked beside thé sea; He took His sandals off 

To bathe His weary feet in the pure cool wave— 

For He had walked across the desert sands 

All day long—and as He bathed His feet 

He murmured to Himself, “Three years! three years! 20 
And then, poor feet, the cruel nails will come 

And make you bleed; but, ah! that blood shall lave 

All weary feet on all their thorny ways.” 

“Three years! three years!’’ He murmured still again, 

“Ah! would it were to-morrow, but a will— 25 
My Father’s will—biddeth Me bide that time.” 

A little fisher-boy came up the shore 

And saw Him—and, nor bold, nor shy, 

Approached, but when he saw the weary face, 

Said mournfully to Him: ‘You look a-tired.” 30 
He placed His hand upon the boy’s brown brow 

Caressingly and blessingly—and said: 

“IT am so tired to wait.” The boy spake not. 

Sudden, a sea-bird, driven by a storm 

That had been sweeping on the farther shore, 35 
Came fluttering towards Him, and, panting, fell 

At His feet and died; and then the boy said: 

“Poor little bird,” in such a piteous tone; 

He took the bird and laid it in His hand, 

And breathed on it—when to his amaze 40 
The little fisher-boy beheld the bird 

Flutter a moment and then fly aloft— 

Its little life returned; and then he gazed 


THE CONQUERED BANNER 


With look intensest on the wondrous face 

(Ah! it was beautiful and fair)—and said: 
“Thou art so sweet I wish Thou wert my God.” 
He leaned down towards the boy and softly said: 
“T am thy Christ.” The day they followed Him 
With cross upon His shoulders, to His death, 
Within the shadow of a shelt’ring rock 

That little boy knelt down, and there adored, 
While others cursed, the thorn-crowned Crucified. 


THE CONQUERED BANNER 


Fur that Banner, for ’tis weary; 

Round its staff ’tis drooping dreary: 
Furl it, fold itit is best ; 

For there’s not a man to wave it, 

And there’s not a sword to save it, 

And there’s not one left to lave it 

In the blood which heroes gave it, 

And its foes now scorn and brave it: 
Furl it, hide it,—-let it rest! 


‘Take that Banner down! ’tis tattered; 

Broken is its staff and shattered ; 

And the valiant hosts are scattered, 
Over whom it floated high. 

Oh, ’tis hard for us to fold it, 

Hard to think there’s none to hold it, 

Hard that those who once unrolled it 
Now must furl it with a sigh! 


Furl that Banner—furl it sadly! 
Once ten thousands hailed it gladly, 
And ten thousands wildly, madly, 

Swore it should forever wave; 
Swore that foeman’s sword should never 
Hearts like theirs entwined dissever, 
Till that flag should float forever 

O’er their freedom or their grave! 


351 


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ABRAM J. RYAN 


Furl it! for the hands that grasped it, 

And the hearts that fondly clasped it, 
Cold and dead are lying low; 

And that Banner—it is trailing, 

While around it sounds the wailing 
Of its people in their woe. 


For, though conquered, they adore it,— 
Love the cold, dead hands that bore it, 
Weep for those who fell before it, 
Pardon those who trailed and tore it; 
And oh, wildly they deplore it, 
Now to furl and fold it so! 


Furl that Banner! ‘True, ’tis gory, 

Yet ‘tis wreathed around with glory, 

And ’twill live in song and story, 
Though its folds are in the dust! 

For its fame on brightest pages, 

Penned by poets and by sages, 

Shall go sounding down the ages— 
Furl its folds though now we must. 


Furl that Banner, softly, slowly! 
Treat it gently—it is holy, 
For it droops above the dead. 
‘Touch it not—unfold it never; 
Let it droop there, furled forever, — 
For its people’s hopes are fled! 


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SANCHO SANCHEZ 353 


VVC ree Dimes GrAG VW EN ee By ESUONG Th: 


1840—1922 


Wilfrid Scawen Blunt, traveler, diplomat, essayist, and poet, was 
born in Sussex in 1840. He was educated at St. Mary’s College, 
Oscott. 

After spending twelve years in the diplomatic service, he traveled 
extensively in the Orient, becoming particularly interested in the 
Islamic cause and in conditions among the Egyptians. Returning to 
England he devoted himself to the career of author, concerning him- 
self occasionally with politics. 

His most noteworthy poems appeared in the volumes, Love Sonnets 
of Proteus, and Seven Golden Odes of Arabia, the last being a series 
of translations done in collaboration with Lady Blunt. Other vol- 
umes of his are The New Pilgrimage and My Diaries, the second 
being an account of his life as a diplomat and as a proponent of the 
downtrodden. 


SANCHO SANCHEZ 
I 


SANCHO SANCHEZ lay a-dying in the house of Mariquita, 
For his life ebbed with the ebbing of the red wound in his side. 
And he lay there as they left him when he came from the Corrida 
In his gold embroidered jacket and his red cloak and his pride. 


II 


But at cockcrow in the morning, when the convents of Sevilla 5 
Suddenly rang aloud to matins, Sanchez wakened with a cry, 
And he called to Mariquita, bade her summon his cuadrilla, 
That they all might stand around him in the hour when he 
should die. 
III 


For he thought in his bold bosom, “I have ventured with them 
often, 
And have led the way to honor upon every ring in Spain. 10 
And now in this the hardest of the fields that I have fought in 
I will choose that every face of them were witness of my pain. 


1Selections from the work of Wilfrid Scawen Blunt are reprinted by 
the kind permission of Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., authorized publishers. 


364 WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT 
IV 


“For their stern eyes would upbraid me if I went down to the 
battle 
Without a friend to cheer me, or at least a fool to hiss. 
And they hold it all unworthy men should die like fatted cattle 15 
Stricken singly in the darkness at the shambles of Cadiz.” 


Vv 
Then he bade the lamps be lighted, and he made them bring a 
mirror, 
Lest his cheeks should have grown paler in the watches of the 
night. 


For he feared lest his disciples should mistrust his soul of terror, 
When they came to look upon him, if they saw his face was 
white. 20 


VI 


Oh, a long time in the mirror did he look with awful smiling 
At the eyes which gazed out at him, while the women watched 
him mute. 
And he marked how death’s white fingers had been clammily 
defiling } 


The redness of God’s image and had wiped the sunburns out. 


VII 


Then he spake, “Go fetch the carmine from the side drawer of 
the table, 25 
Where Mariquita keeps it.” But, when it was not found, 
“Tis no matter,” he answered, “we must do what we are able.” 
And he painted his cheek’s paleness with the red blood of his 
wound. 


VIII 


And anon there came a murmur as of voices and a humming 
On the staircase, and he knew them by their footsteps at the 
door. 30 
And he leant up on his pillow that his eyes might see them coming 
In their order of the plaza as they strode across the floor. 


SANCHO SANCHEZ 355 
IX 


And when they stood around him, in their stately mantas folded, 
With a solemn grief outawing the brute laughter of their eyes, 
You had deemed them in the lamplight to be bronzen statues 

moulded 35 
Of the powers of Nature yielding a brave man in sacrifice. 


xX 


But the soul of Sanchez quailed not, and he laughed in their sad 
faces, 
Crying loud to Mariquita for the Valdepenas wine. 
“A fair pig-skin, Caballeros, blushes here for your embraces. 
And I drink to you your fortune, and I pray you drink to 


mine.” 40 
XI | 
‘Then they filled their leathern flagons, and they held them up 
together 


In a ghastly expectation till their chief should give the sign. 
And the red wine in the silence flowed like blood adown the 


leather. 
And the red blood from the pillow trickled drop by drop like 
wine. 
XII 
Spake the master, “Ere I pledge you, look upon me, men, and 
harken, 45 


For I have a thing to utter, and a dying man is wise. 
Death is weighing down my eyelids. Silently your faces darken. 
But another torch is lighted than the daylight in my eyes. 


XIII 


“Life, I see it now as never I had thought to comprehend it, 
Like the lines which old Manola used to write upon the 
sand, 50 
And we looked on in wonder nor guessed till it was ended 
The birds and trees and faces which were growing from her 
hand. 


356 WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT 
XIV 


‘““Meaning was there from the outset, glorious meaning in our 
calling 
In the voice of emulation and our boyhood’s pride of soul, 
From the day when first the capa from our father’s shoulders 
falling 55 
We were seized with inspiration and rushed out upon the bull. 


XV 


““Meaning was there in sour courage and the calm of our de- 
meanor, 

For there stood a foe before us which had need of all our skill. 

And our lives were as the programme, and the world was our 


arena, 
And the wicked beast was death, and the horns of death were 
hell. 60 


XVI 


“And the boast of our profession was a bulwark against danger 
With its fearless expectation of what good or ill may come, 
For the very prince of darkness shall burst forth on us no 

stranger 
When the doors of death fly open to the rolling of the drum. 


AVIT 


‘As I lay here in the darkness, I beheld a sign from heaven, 65 
Standing close a golden angel by the footpost of my bed, 

And in his hand a letter with the seal and arms engraven 
Of the glorious San Fernando which he bade me read and read. 


AVIII 


‘“‘And the message of his master, the blessed king my patron, 
Was to bid me in his honor to hold myself at need 70 
For this very day and morning of his feast and celebration, 
And in pledge of his high favor he had sent me his own steed. 


SANCHO SANCHEZ 357 


XIX 


“For the lists of heaven were open, and that day they had de- 
creed it 
There should be a special function for the glory of his name. 
And the beasts were Sevillanos, and a master’s hand was 


needed i 
Lest the swords of heaven should falter and the Saint be put 
to shame. 
XX 
“And I heard the potro stamping in the street, and would have 
risen 


But that Mariquita held me and the women and my wound. 
And, though the angel left me, it was truth and not a vision, 
And I know the Saint has called me, and the place where I am 


bound. 80 
XXI 
“T shall fight this day in heaven, and, though all hell shall assail 
me, 


I have hope of a good issue, for perhaps I have some skill, 
And perhaps, if I should stumble or if my hand should fail me, 
There are others in ‘the plaza who have vowed me less than ill. 


D8) I 


“And my mantle of salvation is the faith which is our charter, 385 
And the Virgin of the Pillar my protector and reward, 
And the hosts of heaven my witness and each Spanish Saint and 
Martyr, 
And our Lord Don Santiago himself has lent the sword.” 


XXIII 


Thus he spake, and on his speaking fell a silence and a wonder, 
While the eyes of his companions turned in awe from each to 
each, 90 
And they waited in expectance for the gates to roll asunder, 
And the voices of the angels to command him to the breach,— 


358 WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT 


XXIV 


Waited till the sun uprising sent his glory through the chamber, 
And the spent lamps paled and flickered on the shame of their 


dismay, 
And the dying man transfigured passed in silence from his slum- 
ber, 95 
Like a king to coronation, in the light of his new day. 


XXV 


Only they that stood the closest say the pale lips curved and parted, 
And the eyes flashed out in battle, and the fingers sought the 


sword. 
“Tis the President has called him,” said Fernandez the true 
hearted, 
“He has thrown his hat behind him for the glory of the 
Lord!” 100 
ON THE WAY TO CHURCH 


I 


THERE is one I know. I see her sometimes pass 

In the morning streets upon her way to mass, 

A calm sweet woman with unearthly eyes. 

Men turn to look at her, but ever stop, 

Reading in those blue depths the death of hope 5 
And a wise chastisement for thoughts unwise. 


I] 


Pure is her brow as of a marble Saint. 

Her brown hair pencils it with ripples faint. 

‘There is no shadow on it and no light. 

Her cheeks are pale like lilies in eclipse. 10 
Hardly a little redness on her lips 

Paints the sad smile where all the rest is white. 


iil 


Tall is she and bent forward like a reed 
Which the wind toys with as she walks with speed: 
Girl-like her limbs and virginal her waist. 15 


HOW SHALL I BUILD? 


Of the world’s wonders there is none so sweet 
As this, the summer lightning of her feet, 
Speeding her onward like a fawn in haste. 


IV 


What is her secret? All the world has tried 

To guess it. One I knew in guessing died 

And was no wiser for his mortal pain. 

Each has turned sadder from the thankless quest, 
And gone back silent, even if he guessed, 
Knowing all answer would be counted vain. 


V 


I knew her once. I know her not to-day. 
Our eyes meet sometimes, but hers turn away 


Quicker from mine than from the rest that look. 


Her pale cheek quivers, a flush comes and goes, 
As in the presence of a soul that knows. 
And her hands tighten on her missal book. 


VI 


Men have done evil yet have won to Heaven, 
Lived in blood guiltiness yet died forgiven. 
May I not, I too, one day win my grace? 

Ah no! The sacrilege of this worst sin 
Outweighs all grace. I dare not enter in 
Nor kneel, God’s robber, near that angel face. 


HOW SHALL I BUILD? 


How shall I build my temple to the Lord, 
Unworthy I, who am thus foul of heart ? 

How shall I worship who no traitor word 
Know but of love to play a suppliant’s part? 
How shall I pray, whose soul is as a mart, 

For thoughts unclean, whose tongue is as a sword 
Even for those it loves, to wound and smart? 


Behold how little I can help Thee, Lord. 


soa 


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360 JOHN LANCASTER SPALDING 
The Temple I would build should be all white, 


Each stone the record of a blameless day; IO 
The souls that entered there should walk in light, 
Clothed in high chastity and wisely gay. 
Lord, here is darkness. Yet this heart unwise, 
Bruised in Thy service, take in sacrifice. 


Ji@i ENS TVAIN I GUATS TPR es 11) Bei None 
1840—1916 


John Lancaster Spalding, bishop, scholar, and essayist, was born in 
Kentucky in 1840. Beginning his education at Mount Saint Mary’s 
in his native state, he proceeded to the University of Louvain, and 
finally entered the American College at Rome. 

After ordination he served as assistant priest in the Cathedral at 
Louisville, later becoming chancellor of that diocese. 

In 1877 he was consecrated first bishop of Peoria. 

He was one of the most active of the men interested in Catholic 
higher education, having been particularly instrumental in the estab- 
lishment of the Catholic University at Washington. Almost all his 
writing was directed toward the development of education. 


BOOKS’ 


OOKS are a world—they interest and amuse us; they 
speak to the mind and the heart; they divert from care 
and sorrow; they awaken the fancy and set the imagina- 

tion afire. “They take us round the globe, travel with us through 
every land, ready at a sign to recount rise and fall of nations; they 
linger with us in quiet vales to tell the stories of happy lovers or 
to rechant the songs of poets. In the agora or the forum they 
crave our silence while Demosthenes hurls his fierce invective or 
Cicero marshals the stately phrases of his lofty discourse. “They 
transform ruins and make them loom before us in all their early 
splendor; from battlefields where waves the ripening grain, they 
evoke contending armies with all the pomp and circumstance of 
war. ‘They bring to us, while we sit in our easy chair, before our 


*Reprinted by the kind permission of the Reverend E. M. Dunn, owner 
of the copyright. 


BOOKS 361 


own hearthfire, the men and women who have served and en- 
nobled mankind,—those who have made history, founded religions, 
framed laws, upbuilt states, created arts and sciences, taught 
philosophies, withstood tyrants, and endured infinitely. 

They are many worlds—they take us back to the paradisal 
home; they lead us to the promised land. At their bidding blind 
Homer grasps his harp and the Grecian hosts assemble on the 
windy plains of Troy. The unyoked steeds champ the golden 
grain beneath the starlit heavens. Hector falls before Achilles, 
and Priam kisses the hand which slew his son, making us feel that 
thousands of years ago, as now, love was more divine than strength, 
pity more godlike than power. “To whatever spot on earth is 
memorable, books will take us. ‘To whoever is in any way capa- 
ble of human life, they bring refreshment and joy. In the end- 
less variety of races and individuals, of tastes and opinions, they 
have wherewith to satisfy all. Is there a world to which poets 
do not offer themselves as guides? ‘They dip their pens in the 
colors of the dawn and the twilight. The young hear them chant 
the praises of immortal love; the strong, the all-subduing power of 
will; the old, the peace of restful death. “They take our every 
mood; they laugh, they weep, they mock; and suddenly they are 
afire with the courage of heroes, or are rapt in ecstasy with saints 
and martyrs. “They are the trumpeters of patriots who battle 
for their country, and to nursing mothers they sing low lullabies. 

In the presence of the tragedies which try great souls, they take 
us by the hand to show us that the innocent can suffer no wrong, 
and that a brave and loving heart is superior to whatever fate or 
senseless nature may inflict. “They humanize all common things, 
entwining their tender thoughts about broken toys and vacant 
chairs and locks of faded hair. “The bucket that hangs in the 
well, the deserted house, with its door ajar, the path choked with 
weeds, whisper to them of joys and sorrows, of effort and failure, 
of life and death. Whatever hope or despair, faith or doubt, love 
or hate, ecstasy or agony, has touched a mortal, lies in books, im- 
mortal. All that men have planned and done, all that they have 
dared and borne—their dreams and errors, their gropings and 
wanderings, their searchings for what others have found after 
they themselves had crumbled to dust, the miserable outcome of 
mighty undertakings, the vast results of insignificant beginnings, 


362 JOHN LANCASTER SPALDING 


the rise of obscure tribes to world power, the sinking of great 
nations into nothingness—all this lies in books. “They are for 
every age, for every type, for every mood. 

On this wintry night I see a million glowing hearthfires. Around 
gentle mothers are gathered the sweet faces of pure children, ris- 
ing head above head like the steps of winding stairs; and in the 
vision I behold books open, while fresh and all-believing souls look 
out through gray and blue and brown eyes upon them. ‘These 
are magicians who show things incredible. Here are the thousand 
tales of wonder,—Aladdin with his lamp, Fortunatus with his 
wishing cap, Queen Mab and her fairy world, and Mother Goose, 
best of all. Here are stories of wanderings afar, of adventures 
on sea and land, of the discovery of new worlds, of shipwreck on 
unknown islands. Here are songs and melodies which mothers 
sang to their children a thousand years ago; legends which for 
young hearts never grow old, of King Arthur and his knights, of 
Robin Hood and his good men, of Bruce and Wallace and William 
Tell. To think of it all is to be a child again. The long 
procession of the years vanishes; the toil and the trouble, the sin 
and the sorrow, the promise and the perjury, are-no more. ‘The 
world is fresh as on the primal day. Whatever the seasons bring 
is newly dropt from the hand of God. Death is but a dream, and 
life is all. We are alive, and so are our fathers and mothers, our 
brothers and sisters; the whole world is alive, the brooks and the 
birds, the gardens and the fields, and the days are long, and filled 
with light. We drink the perfume, we bask in the sunshine, and 
are at one with lambs and colts and sucking pigs. We dance with 
the waving corn; with leaves we whisper foolish things to the 
mysterious air. 

If some morning we awake and find the hills hoar with frost, 
what is it but a,new kind of life? Our young hearts leap forth 
to the flocking snowflakes as gleefully as to spring showers; and 
when we see the wide white cloth spread we know it is for a feast. 
We hear sleighbells jingle, we see laughing eyes gleaming from 
close-drawn hoods, we listen to the crackling fire, we watch the 
roasting apples, the popping corn; the cider is amber in the glass, 
the nuts are cracked, and kings and millionaires are melancholy 
fools compared with us. Are not the stars gleaming in the crisp 
air? Is not the crystal ice glistening on streams fallen asleep? 


BOOKS 363 


And what is that uplighting all the east, but the moon, pushing 
away the darkness that she may look upon our glee? On the 
polished steel we glide, curving as bends the river, and the silent 
hills are glad, reéchoing our merry shout and laugh; the naked 
boughs catch the thrill of life, and dream of spring,—of leaves and 
flowers and songs of birds, of sweet girls and smiling babes, in 
whose eyes the azure skies are mirrored. Ah! welladay, all this 
was, but is no more. ‘Thievish time has stolen our world, and 
where shall we find it again but in memory made quick by the 
noble spirits who speak to us from books, happy that souls are still 
alive who are able to partake their joys? 

When we move upward and the breath of life becomes more 
intense, when the bud of youth and maidenhood is become a full- 
blown flower, and we feel the throb of universal life, the stirring 
within ourselves of the universal power which clothes all things 
with strength and beauty, when we long for the desert as a 
dwelling-place, with one fair spirit for a minister, where shall we 
find nourishment for the blissful mood, if not in books? In them 
all divine lovers become our companions. ‘They linger with us to 
speak of immortal ecstasies, as they who love, love to talk of their 
love. Where shall we begin? In paradise, with the hymn of the 
first man smitten by the charm of woman’s beauty? Or shall we 
pause to watch the conflict of Europe with Asia, sung by Homer, 
and all because of love? Or shall we hear Vergil sing how Love 
threw himself in vain athwart the way wherein moved the destiny 
of Rome? Ah! well, the god was avenged, when the Power 
which denied love, having overcome the world, sank in the mire 
of mere animalism and was trampled by avenging hordes. Rather 
let us take no thought where we alight in the fair kingdom of fresh 
and tender hearts, for wherever we set foot books will welcome us 
and be our guides. “Though we follow Dante to hell, the voice 
of Francesca shall make us dream it is Paradise. Shall we sit 
with Jessica on the violet-clad and moonlit bank and listen to the 
music in our hearts, or shall we lend ear to Juliet while she up- 
braids the hasty and officious dawn, that comes to drive from her 
the light and life that lie in Romeo’s eyes? 

Lo! it is St. Agnes’ eve—the owl for all his feathers is a-cold, 
the hare limps trembling through the frozen grass, and suddenly 
upon our ears bursts the argent revelry, and we behold fair Made- 


364 JOHN LANCASTER SPALDING 


line and Porphyro, who long ages ago fled away into the storm 
and were rich and rich enough with only love! Or shall we turn 
aside to weep with Isabella over her basil pot? For hearts aflame 
with love, books are full of tales of love. Like bees in clover 
fields they may light anywhere and sip nectar. Alas! we may 
there also see the men who. might have towered in the van of all 
the world, let occasion die while they did sleep in Love’s Elysium. 
But for the young, in whom life’s pulse most deeply throbs, love is 
but an episode. ‘hey dwell with thoughts and hopes which are 
athrill with heroic daring and endurance. ‘They are straitened in 
the world and lack breathing room. “They would discover new 
lands, build states, strike tyrants down, break the chains of slaves, 
lead captives into promised lands, and stand in the front of peoples, 
like saviors, to deliver them from ignorance and sensuality. What 
a world of noble books there is for them, from that which tells of 
Abraham, who went forth from his own, leaving that which had 
intertwined itself with the tenderest fibers of his heart, that 
he might found a new race and build a kingdom of God, to that 
in which we behold Lincoln, much enduring and much hoping 
man, trusting in God and in right-loving and right-discerning 
souls, until he saw his country emerge from the sea of blood, un- 
divided though sorrow-crowned, to resume her divinely appointed 
mission to spread freedom and good-will among all peoples. But 
we may choose from any age or land, for, thanks to the heart which 
makes us men, those who greatly dare and do and suffer, have 
never anywhere been lacking. 

There is Plutarch, name worthy of homage, who makes it pos- 
sible for us to live with the founders of states, the warriors, orators, 
and poets, the men of power and genius, who were Greece and 
Rome. What is history but the biographies of great men, of those 
whom courage, faith, and industry have made leaders of the people 
and doers of memorable things? “The value of such books lies 
largely in the enthusiasm which they inspire. “They who loved 
justice and freedom, who for their love suffered exile, ignominy, 
and death, rise before us as we read their story, to bid us look away 
from present and apparent success, to the world of enduring things, 
where the wise and true, whether in life they wandered homeless 
and friendless or suffered the punishment of criminals, have 
ascended to the worth and power which cannot pass away. 


BOOKS 365 


For those who know how to read, history teaches as nothing 
else can, that a human soul, centered, in truth and right, is invinci- 
ble, acts with the power of God, and like Him, prevails. But to 
youthful minds its pages do not make this lesson plain. ‘They are 
drawn to deeds of prowess, to the flash of the orator’s thought and 
the thunder of his voice, to the poet’s song of glory and triumph, 
to the power of the law-giver and the thinker which tames sav- 
ages, and brings reason and conscience to play upon the affairs of 
men. ‘hey read with the heart and the imagination; they do not 
yet understand what labor it costs to learn how to read as great 
minds read. ‘They are hungry for sensation. ‘They look eagerly 
on the panorama of nature as it unfolds itself in books, more in- 
telligibly and more enchantingly than to the senses, for they, like 
all the heedless, have eyes and see not, ears and hear not. “They 
look on the starlit heavens and think it a common sight; for them 
the stars are but pimples on the face of the sky; but with books as 
their guides they learn to find themselves at home in interstellar 
spaces, and perceive that the earth is but a minor rock, a mere 
spall, lost amid countless solar systems. Caught in the meshes of 
the senses, they think the little circle in which they move, in city 
or in village or amid the fields, a world, as it is, indeed, their 
world; but when they come to see themselves in books as in mir- 
rors, they see how less than nothing is the baby world in which 
they have been living,—a mere fool’s paradise. Their knowledge, 
their thoughts and deeds, have seemed to them to be of weight, to 
possess a power which is unrecognized ; but when they have gone 
deeper into books, what they know becomes ignorance and what 
they do sheer vanity. “Thus young readers, if they are destined 
to make themselves a home in the world of books, are taught first 
of all the wisdom of modesty. If they cannot learn this, the use 
and worth of books must remain hidden from them. So long as 
we live in the realm of mere happenings, real or imaginary, we 
live on the surface of things, and are still controlled by the in- 
stincts of barbarians. We are spectators who are fascinated by 
the glitter and movement of life, like children who take delight 
in foolish games or are carried beyond themselves by the sight of 
what is strange. A toy is more interesting than a thought to 
those who are incapable of thought. 

In the plays of the great dramatists, it is the story and not the 


366 JOHN LANCASTER SPALDING 


poetry which gives pleasure. “The perfect phrase, the utterance 
of deep wisdom, retards the action, which alone interests the multi- 
tude of spectators. Hence the noblest plays are rarely put on 
the stage, and as rarely read. Profound writers have few read- 
ers. It is not possible that they should interest those who live 
amid the shows of things and are more eager to listen to gossip 
than to words of wisdom. In books as in all things we seek our- 
selves. Narcissus-like we see in the stream of matter but the 
reflection of our own countenance, and when we look up to the 
eternal and infinite we still see our own image. In our money, our 
country, our friends, we love ourselves. In her child the mother 
finds the symbol of her virginal love, which made the world a 
paradise; in the lullabies she sings, she hears far-off echoes of her 
maiden dreams. Hence each one believes and feels that the best 
books are the books in which he finds himself. For a whole 
world of rosy cheeks and bright eyes Mother Goose is better than 
Plato or Shakespeare; and for a world a little older Robinson 
Crusoe has more worth than all the philosophies. 

A boy will read a tale of adventure, but not a history of scien- 
tific research; a girl a story of love, but not a treatise on womanly 
virtue. Why urge your favorite dish or tipple on those by whom 
it is disliked? What suits us suits us, and there is an end of the 
matter. No, it is not so. On the contrary, it is the business of 
life to give us an opportunity to learn to know and love the best 
things. When we are children we take delight in the things of 
children; when we become men we still feel the charm of our 
early existence, but the childish has no longer power to please us. 
Having become other we cease to be able to find ourselves in the 
haunts of the olden times. “They are beautiful to memory, but 
had we to go back to them we should find them unendurable. We 
cannot love the highest unless we see it; and it can be seen only 
by those who make themselves high. Books are not everything, 
but for those who wish to lead the higher life they are indispen- 
sable. ‘‘Whosoever,” says De Bury, “acknowledges himself to 
be a zealous lover of truth, of happiness, of wisdom, of science, or 
even of the faith, must of necessity make himself a lover of books.” 

Whether we wish to live in the past, or to forecast the future, 
or to fill the present with delightful thoughts and images; whether 
we wish to gain a knowledge of law, or of medicine, or of the- 


BOOKS 367 


ology; whether we wish to listen to the philosophers, or the 
orators, or the poets, to weep over tragedies or to laugh at come- 
dies, or to thrill at the spectacle of the heroic struggles of patriots 
and martyrs; whether we wish to learn how to live or how to die, 
——books must be our teachers. If we seek knowledge, they will 
impart it, if counsel, they will give it; if we want consolation, we 
shall find it in them, if recreation and beguilement, in them also. 
They are athrill with life, and the best of them being alive now 
some thousand years, inspire us with thoughts of immortality; and 
since though old they are still young, they have the power even 
when age bears us down, to rouse within us the fresh hope and 
courage of youth. “I would not barter my books and my love of 
reading,” said Fénelon, ‘“‘for kingdoms and empires.” ‘My early 
and invincible love of reading,” said Gibbon, “I would not ex- 
change for the treasures of India.” Cicero declared that he would 
part with all he possessed rather than not be permitted to live and 
die among his books. When Scott, returning to Abbotsford to 
die, was wheeled into his library, the tears burst forth; and 
Southey, no longer able to read, loved to kiss and stroke his books. 

As we cannot fathom the wealth of life there is in a real man 
by occasional conversations with him, so we cannot appreciate the 
worth of a genuine book by simply reading it. We must study 
it, learn to know it as we know a friend, seek its company and 
return to it again and again, with expectant and joyful hearts, as 
we return to those we love. “There are not many books which are 
worthy of such devotion, nor will all of these commend them- 
selves to all. Each one must find for himself those he needs, 
those which stimulate him most; one or two, at least, which are 
precious to him he must discover, or remain inferior, never attain- 
ing true insight into the worth and beauty of life. The important 
thing is not what we like, but what we ought to like, questions of 
taste, like all questions, being questions of reason. One of our 
chief aims should be to form purer and higher tastes. “The worse 
pleases us because we have not accustomed ourselves to the better. 
The saying—tell me what you eat, and I will tell you what you 
are—is true certainly of our spiritual nourishment. They who 
feed on low thoughts and desires are low men. 

The best thing the youth carries from college is not knowledge, 
but the ardent desire to learn; and the best knowledge he gets in 


368 JOHN LANCASTER SPALDING 


school is the knowledge of how to learn. Genuine books inspire 
faith and courage, confirm hope, beguile sorrow, teach wisdom, fill 
the memory with beautiful and noble thoughts, thrill the heart 
with heroic aspiration, sow the mind with the seeds of truth, bring 
the distant and the past, with all their glories, victories, failures, 
and defeats, to the homes of even the poor and heavy laden, to 
enrich, soothe, and enlighten their weary and lonely lives. If 
parents, teachers, and priests would but take the trouble to get 
definite knowledge concerning the books which are best suited to 
rouse the young to mental and moral activity, and if then they 
would wisely direct and encourage them in their reading, they 
would doubtless render them higher and more lasting service than 
any which may result from their admonitions, lessons, and ex- 
hortations. But children are left to grope their way or are per- 
mitted to read whatever chance or the family or public library 
throws into their hands; and since their judgment and taste are 
unformed, it is more than probable that what is false and vicious 
will please them rather than what is genuine and good. ‘The end 
of reading, as of whatever else we do, is self-improvement. ‘The 
world exists for man, and its proper use is to make him more 
fully man. Books then are but a means of self-culture. They 
help us to think, to believe, to love, and to do, or they render us 
no service. Books which impart information are superseded as 
knowledge increases, but books into which genius has poured its 
soul, keep forever, each in its distinct place, in the world’s litera- 
ture. As they sprang from deep glowing minds and hearts they 
retain always the power to awaken and strengthen minds and 
hearts. “Chey remain as a spiritual presence, to move men to 
diviner sympathies, to lift their thoughts to more enduring worlds. 
Their creators 


Shake the ashes of the grave aside 
From their calm locks, and undiscomfited 
Look steadfast truths against time’s changing mask. 


A work of art, like Hamlet or Faust, which may be had for 
a few cents, would be held above all price, if, like the Sistine 
Madonna or the Transfiguration, its perfect truth and beauty 
could be found but in a single exemplar. The book-lover, hidden 
and unknown, may feel that all the mighty men of words and deeds 


BOOKS 369 


are his servants. For his delight and instruction, they have 
thought and written and conquered and upbuilt. To him they re- 
sing their songs; to him they rehearse the story of their struggles 
and triumphs. 

He who leaves a fortune leaves it to be wasted or misused; but 
he who leaves a genuine book, leaves a precious and imperishable 
heritage to all the wise of all the ages to come. What we need 
to make us what we are capable of becoming is not new informa- 
tion, but a new impulse which shall rouse us to a fuller conscious- 
ness of the infinite worth of truth and goodness, and this impulse 
is given by the vital books, the books of power. A library teaches 
at once the vanity and the nobleness of human life. Here lie the 
thoughts, hopes, dreams, joys, sorrows, ambitions, and works of 
a thousand minds, desiccated and labelled, like specimens in a 
museum. Into this mummy dust they have all crumbled. And 
yet what divine virtue must there not have been in these hearts, 
whose words, after the sleep of centuries, are ever ready to 
awaken to thrill the living with a new sense of the deathless 
power of truth and beauty? How is it possible to dwell here and 
not be pure, humble, and reverent, or not feel the godlike worth 
of man’s thought and love? And have not those who have lived 
affectionately among books been in general good and deserving 
men? ‘The love of study,” says Gibbon, ‘‘a passion which de- 
rives fresh vigor from enjoyment, supplies each day, each hour with 
a perpetual source of independent and rational pleasure.” 

If conversation lag I find my friend is dull; but if I take up a 
book which I know to be full of inspiration and power, and it 
prove uninteresting, I am driven to confess that the fault lies in 
myself. Thus books, being unchangeable, are touchstones whereby 
to prove ourselves. An author suggests, enlightens and instructs 
also; for to be impelled to think is to be impelled toward insight 
and knowledge. ‘The greatest thinkers even have left us but frag- 
ments of their minds, or if they have written what seems to be a 
complete transcript of their inner world, that in it which we find 
inspiring and helpful is fragmentary, for in the world of books, as 
in that of men, we choose and love but what suits our taste. “The 
higher our intellectual power and culture, the more clearly do we 
perceive how few there are who are capable of grasping the thought 
and import of a great book. In the words of the Saviour, simple 


370 JOHN LANCASTER SPALDING 


and plain as they are, how much there is which the multitude have 
not fathomed; nay, which philosophers even have failed to under- 
stand in all their divine significance and truth! For the right 
appreciation of literature, it is not sufficient to have a cultivated 
mind or a pure heart or a living power of imagination, but we 
must have them all and have them act in harmony. ‘The evils 
which the habit of reading what is inferior entails, are serious. 
It wastes time which might be profitably employed; it leads to 
inattention, since poor writing invites the mind to wander, having 
in itself no attractiveness; it prevents the development of a taste 
for what is excellent, enfeebles the power of discernment, dulls 
the edge of the intellect, and accustoms one to content himself 
with the superficial and the commonplace. Its effects are similar 
to those which are produced by association with the foolish and 
vulgar. “I hate books,’ said Rousseau; “‘they teach us only to 
talk about what we do not know.” This is true of those who 
read but the books of facts; it is not true of those who read the 
books of power. It is not difficult to find those who are indiffer- 
ent to books or who have a distaste for them. Shut such a one in 
a library, and he is as lonely as if he were confined in a prison 
cell. For him the books are as dead as the walls; their presence 
may even irritate him and add to his wretchedness. He stays 
gladly with men or horses or flowers, but books are as melancholy 
as tombs: they give him a sense of discomfort as though they were 
haunted, having heard, perchance, that there is some sort of mys- 
terious presence in them. It is the man or women, the brave, 
generous, thinking soul we find in the book, which makes it pre- 
cious, makes it a friend. 

But magazines and newspapers, like corporations, like the 
syndicates that publish them, are soulless. “They merely repre- 
sent something or nothing, like a member of Congress, whom we 
hardly think of as a man. A book, like a living person, may 
inspire love or hate; but who can love or hate magazines or news- 
papers? ‘They are idle things for the idle and for idle hours. 
‘They have no power to take firm hold of us and to rouse us to 
self-activity. They have no character themselves, and are there- 
fore powerless to form minds and hearts. They are for the moment, 
and their readers live aimlessly in the present. ‘Their world is 
what happened yesterday or an hour ago, and their educational 


BOOKS 371 


value is not greater than that of gossip and other trivial pastimes; 
but since they touch upon everything, those whose reading is 
confined to them, talk about many things, understanding nothing. 
Put your daily newspaper aside for a week and then look through 
all the numbers, and you will need no argument to prove of how 
much valuable time it robs you. The newspaper reader lives in 
a crowd, in the midst of a mob almost; and in such environment 
it is dificult not to lose the sense of responsibility or to retain a 
sense of refinement, decency, and self-respect. He becomes callous 
both to what is noble and to what is vile. The deeds of heroes do 
not move him, and crimes and calamities only in as much as they 
minister to his passion for novelty. He is capable even of a semi- 
conscious longing for wars, famines, floods, and wrecks, that his 
craving for news may be fed. He tends to become like the Roman 
multitude, whom the sight of men butchering one another made 
drunk with pleasure. The houses of the powerful and the rich 
may be closed against us, but if we are lovers of books, we feel that 
we are the equals of the best, for we live in the company of 
prophets and apostles, of philosophers and poets. Socrates will 
ask us questions, Plato will admit us to his garden, and Cicero, 
lying at ease in his Tuscalan Villa, will discourse to us of all high 
things. 
I rode with Milton all day long, 
With Milton at his best; 


He sang his high heroic song, 
While I reclined at rest. 


“O thou who art able to write a book,” says Carlyle, ‘“‘which once 
in two centuries or oftener there is a man gifted to do, envy not 
him whom they name City-builder, and inexpressibly pity him 
whom they name Conqueror, or City-burner.” In the library of 
even a poor man we may easily find a company of the wisest and 
wittiest, gathered from many lands and ages, for his instruction 
and entertainment. He need but put on his wishing-cap and any 
one of them will begin to talk or sing. 

A genuine book, like the sun, has heat and light enough for all 
the world through all the ages; nor does it lose what it gives, but 
though it have nourished and delighted a hundred generations it 
still retains the power to fill a hundred more with strength and 


374 JOHN LANCASTER SPALDING 


age, from Greece to Italy, from Jerusalem, Athens, and Rome, the 
same truth emerges, clothed almost in the same words. Genius 
itself despairs of uttering anything really new, and the man of 
genius, while recognizing that the best has already been said, is 
tempted to lament his late appearance on earth. The more 
familiar we are with the world’s literature, the more clearly do 
we perceive, that apart from new theories, resulting from new dis- 
coveries, inventions, and happenings, there is little any one can 
say which is new. But the soul of man, being infinite in its aspi- 
rations, capable of thoughts which transcend all bounds and pene- 
trate eternity, is never weary of contemplating the spiritual facts 
which constitute its being, and which, like itself, are of unfathom- 
able import; and therefore it never loses relish for the old truth, 
which is forever new in its applications to life, having power, like 
light, to remain itself, while it clothes the world with endless 
variety and beauty. Hence the works of genius never grow 
obsolete, but flourish from generation to generation, bearing fresh 
flowers and rich fruit; and as no truth is exactly the same for any 
two minds, so is truth modified to suit the changing environment 
in which the race lives, now emerging with diviner power and 
significance, and now obscured by the passions or the heedlessness 
of the age. But to him who has once perceived its real nature, 
its infinite worth is plain. He will abandon all, if need be, to 
follow it. It is the pearl above price; it is joy and love. It leads 
to the inner world where consciousness reveals God and the soul. 
It makes us meek and lowly, merciful and lovers of peace; it fills 
us with longing for righteousness; it enables us to bear patiently 
persecution, poverty, and obloquy, for these affect the outer man, 
-not him. who lives within, whom :truth makes free and a citizen of 
unseen and higher .worlds, capable .of |the .spiritual .worship, 
whereby he recognizes his kinship with: the Eternal.and:with all 
ithe, pure and loving souls for.whom.the universe is.a temple, anid 
God is all in all. 

Since the. multitude of men love to see things happen and to 
talk. and read of them as happening, : but ‘have little capacity and 
less liking ft reflection, it is not to be expected: that: they will read 
books which are interesting only because they rouse the ‘intellect 
and compel thought. Such books will not find many readers, but 
the few who study them will outweigh in mental force and moral 


BOOKS 375 


worth whole millions who relish nothing but stories and news- 
papers. ‘Though we be not able clearly to perceive the priceless 
treasures stored in books, let the testimony of so many of the 
noblest minds persuade us of their worth, and inspire us to discover 
for ourselves the marvellous world of which these immortal spirits 
have left such good report. Shakspere’s advice, to study what 
we most affect, has worth, but may easily mislead, for most readers 
are pleased with what is inferior or vicious, whereas the aim of 
whoever wishes to improve himself should be to learn to take 
delight in the best. A taste for what is genuine in literature, as a 
taste for what is genuine in art, being an acquired taste, a main 
purpose of our reading should be to cultivate the power of dis- 
tinguishing between what is genuine and what is spurious. In 
genuine books we may often find things which we cannot accept, 
which repel us even; but this will not prevent the earnest student 
from striving to get at what good there is in them. ‘The greatest 
writers have their faults, and no one author teaches the whole 
truth. Intellectual progress, in fact, is a process of choosing from 
the best what is suited to our needs. 

The reading as the writing of books may be a disease, the in- 
dulgence of morbid propensities, of vanity, of indolence, of a 
fondness for what is sensational or frivolous; and it is doubtless 
true that many of us spend no time more idly than that which we 
give to reading, which unless it rouse us to self-activity, does us 
harm. ‘The case with speculative and practical truth is the same, 
—neither is vitally held except by those who cease not from striv- 
ing to learn, whether by thinking or by doing. As it is better to 
know a great man than to hear others talk about him, however 
pleasant their discourse, so is it more profitable to study genuine 
books than to read about them. Literary criticism is valuable 
only when it wakens in us a desire to acquaint ourselves with 
the books which thrill with life and power; for to them and not to 
the critics we must go for light and strength. In writers who 
‘have merely talent thou shalt vainly look for help. If thy mind 
-is to'be:made luminous and the fountain of thy heart opened, it 
-must be done'by thoughts which spring from the deepest soul of 
man. All of: worth.which even the best writer has to impart is 
derived from his experience; but his experience, to be interesting 
and fruitful, must be communicated with the tact and skill, the 


376 JOHN LANCASTER SPALDING 


correctness and adequacy, the ease and grace, which constitute the 
charm of a real man of letters. Reading is valuable chiefly as a 
stimulus to action, since the end of life is to do rather than to 
think. Hence what fails to rouse within us courage and the 
impulse to act, helps us not at all or little. 

Beware of words—there is no worse delusion than that which 
leads us to imagine that the acceptance of the same formulas is 
equivalent to a union of mind and heart. Words are but symbols, 
and to attempt to substitute them for truth is preposterous. This 
verbal superstition is the more to be dreaded, because great writers 
have such mastery over language that their readers easily mistake 
the form for the substance, and worship an idol instead of God. 
Men rush into all kinds of danger and folly, rather than bear the 
imputation of cowardice or superstition, so great is the tyranny of 
words over unthinking minds. 

The reading of many books gives pleasure, but the careful study 
of a few profits most. 

Who reads 
Incessantly, and to his reading brings not 
A spirit and judgment equal or superior, 


Uncertain and unsettled still remains, 
Deep versed in books and. shallow in himself. 


However well an author express his thought, it is not possible for 
him to impart the experience without which it cannot be rightly 
understood. As the mind grows, the aspect of things changes, as 
objects seen through a microscope appear other than when viewed 
with the naked eye. Mental culture leads us to worlds unlike 
that in which we grow up,—as much wider and richer than it as 
our modern universe is vaster and in every way more glorious 
than the one the ancients imagined. As our fuller insight into 
the laws of nature is the result of the labor of centuries and of 
innumerable minds, so the individual can acquire culture only by 
industry and observation, by patient thought and much reading; 
but once it is ours the pains it has cost are forgotten in the sense of 
freedom and strength which it imparts. “Culture,” says Arnold, 
“is indispensably necessary, and culture is reading, but reading 
with a purpose to guide it, and with system. He does a good work 
who does anything to help this; indeed, it is the one essential 
service now to be rendered to education.” Read with a dictionary 


BOOKS Rais: 


at your side, and never pass a word whose meaning you do not 
fully understand. 

Most readers seek themselves in books, but an awakened mind 
finds all the books in himself—they but serve to call his attention 
to the fact that they are there. When a young student enters a 
great library, he is overcome by a sense of discouragement. How 
shall he ever learn all the wisdom which is there stored? ‘The 
labor of a lifetime must still leave him on the threshold. But one 
who is master in the art of reading knows that a few books, thor- 
oughly assimilated, are a key to all others, and he no more dreams 
of reading them all than of eating all the provisions in the market- 
house. “Their chief use is to nourish, strengthen, and inspire, and 
but one in thousands has vital substance. 

Original authors are rarely found interesting at first; they 
rather repel and give pain because they call forth in the reader the 
consciousness of his inferiority. But if he persevere, he learns to 
love them for the help he finds in them. Love indeed is the only 
thing which can put us at ease with the truly great, for it alone 
makes us glad to acknowledge their superiority. “There is no 
author, as there is no man, who is wholly great. “The best are 
great only on occasion or in setting forth special phases of truth, 
when they are fully themselves and throw all their power of 
thought and feeling into the matter. “The reader’s secret is to 
know when the diviner mind speaks, and to wait upon its utter- 
ance with thoroughly awakened attention, passing lightly over 
what is ordinary and uninspired. He seeks in each author for 
what he can find in him alone or at the least more perfectly in 
him than in any other. As a good workman does good work even 
with poor tools, so a true reader finds intimations of truth and 
beauty in books in which others see nothing. He carries himself 
to the task, and reads his own mind into and out of the printed 
page. It is not by hearing eloquent men or by visiting strange 
lands and venerable monuments, that we shall come to insight 
which they alone attain who dwell with their own thoughts and 
make the godward ascent from their own hearts. 

“T hate this shallow Americanism,” says Emerson, “which hopes 
to get rich by credit, to get knowledge by raps on midnight tables, 
to learn the economy of the mind by phrenology, or to acquire skill 
without study or mastery without apprenticeship.” ‘The only 


378 JOHN LANCASTER SPALDING 


essentially interesting things in the world are the struggles of men 
for knowledge, liberty, and virtue, and the most pathetic thing is 
the blind and helpless way in which they struggle. Here is 
America, set apart and dedicated to freedom, peopled by a chosen 
race, and it is already delivered into the hands of mammonites, 
Philistines, boodlers, thugs, and editors. How shall we have faith 
in the power of man to govern himself and to upbuild his being to 
the full height? ‘The wicked who love not their fellowmen, but 
study how they may dominate and make use of them, trust to 
nothing so much as to the dullness, inattention and sensual indo- 
lence of the multitude. If the inert mass could be lifted to the 
plane where men think and care, all reforms would be made easy. 

When we fail to recognize the truly great, the loss is ours, not 
theirs. The knowledge of books which the most have is like one’s 
acquaintance with a chance companion. We remember that he 
said this or that, but the spirit and heart of the man is hidden from 
us. 

The book is suggestive, but what does it suggest to the dull and 
heedless? ‘The universe is athrill with truth and beauty, but for 
the multitude it means little more than bread and meat. Read 
what gives thee delight, thrills thee with admiration, and awakens 
love; but strive assiduously so to form thy judgment and taste 
that only the best shall please thee. The important thing for 
thee is not what divine truths may be found in the works of men 
of genius, but what thou findest in thy own mind and heart. 
There or nowhere is the infinite life revealed to thee. “The best 
authors are not those who teach most, but those who inspire the 
love of excellence, and give their readers strength and courage to 
pursue it with perseverance. 


The noble deed, the perfect word, 
Undying works, is ever heard. 


It is easy to find fault: appreciation requires intelligence and 
character. 

““‘We have a combat to sustain,” says St. Basil; “to prepare our- 
selves for it we must seek the company of the poets, the historians, 
and the orators.” Play at games when thou canst not find a 
genuine book or a true man to entertain and enlighten thee. A 
yolume will hold the wisdom of mankind, but it is wisdom only 


BOOKS 379 


for those whom reflection and experience have made wise. Carlyle 
and his disciples have striven to persuade us that genuine faith is 
not possible in the present age, which they believe hopelessly given 
over to insincerity and cant. It is a shallow doctrine, and one 
which the grim seer, whose eye was quick to pierce shams, should 
have plainly seen to be an unreality. “The universe has not fallen 
to decay, nor have the brain and heart of man withered. God is 
in His heaven, and the world is as glorious as on the primal day. 
Man knows more than he has ever known, he is freer, more human 
and stronger than he has ever been; and it is childish to take the 
tone of complaint in the presence of our wider views, deeper in- 
sight, and aims more consciously worthy. “The world is indeed, as 
it has ever been, full of insincerity, since wholly true and genuine 
natures are and always have been rare. ‘This is part of the mys- 
tery of evil which we cannot fathom, but which does not weaken 
the faith and hope of brave hearts. ‘The evil there is in men is 
plain to the dullest. “The wise study the good there is in them. 
Thou lovest, O my soul, blue heavens and white clouds uppiled, 
the starry vault and moonlit sky, plain and snowy peak. Thou 
lovest the race of man, to which all saints and sages, heroes and 
poets, belong; of which are born the nursing mothers whose faces 
bend over sleeping infants, smiling in their sleep, watching over 
them until they grow to fair maidens whose thoughts are sweet 
and pure as flowers new blown, to youths whose hearts are fresh 
and strong as torrents leaping adown their rocky beds. This is 
God’s world, my soul! thou art His child; have no fear whether 
thou wake or whether thou fall asleep. 

In literature nothing really counts but that which sane and 
honest minds have written in uttermost sincerity; the rest is like a 
dress of ceremony which suits the occasion, but has no further use 
or significance. In the best literature even we feel that words 
fail to reveal truth and beauty, whose very nature it is to elude 
expression. Whether we write or paint or chisel, we pursue what 
cannot be overtaken; but the futility of the highest effort is recog- 
nized only by the most sincere and poetic souls. The common 
man is content with his common achievements. “The books which 
never lose their power to charm are those which reflect the very 
life and mind of their authors: for a living soul is perennially inter- 
esting. No writer, however much genius he may have, is great, if 


380 JOHN LANCASTER SPALDING 


his spirit is perverse. The affinity of the mind is with truth, good- 
ness, and beauty, as that of the eye with light, and a fondness for 
the darker sides of life is evidence of perversity. “The noblest 
influence is that which inspires the love of truth and right. So 
averse is the spiritual from the sensual nature, that the preserva- 
tion of the individual and the propagation of the race seem insufh- 
cient to bind the soul to this servitude, and hence it is prodded 
with the goad of appetite and lust, until stooping to the mire its 
bedraggled wings can hardly lift it again to the azure dome. Shall 
genius turn traitor to the soul, and become the purveyor of 
putridity? ' 

The art which is at all times within the reach of all is found 
only in books. If one could easily meet with men and women who 
are at once intelligent and sympathetic, their company might be as 
pleasant and possibly as helpful as intercourse with books. But 
since such society is hardly to be had, how gladly one flees the 
ceaseless din of talk of one’s self, and one’s neighbor, of politics 
and business, of marriage and death, to take refuge with the noble 
minds, who, emancipated from the bondage of earthly life, dwell 
in the serene world of immortal things. A word or a hint shows 
the whole matter to intelligent readers. At a glance they see the 
author’s scope, and decide whether or not he is worth studying. 
In quitting one book for another, as in leaving one person for an- 
other, we often feel not only that we have crossed oceans and ages, 
but that we have gotten into other worlds. “Take thy book as thy 
money. If with it thou canst please and help others, be glad; but, 
if they are not for it, it is not therefore the less precious to thyself. 

What a delightful thing it is to come upon a book scarcely 
known, in which there is the breath of genius. I can recall the 
time when I measured my progress in learning by the size of my 
class-book; and there are many I believe who do not think that 
great wisdom may be found in a little volume. It is like the 
prejudice against small men, or the notion that great men should 
have high place or live in a large city. When they speak of a little 
book they imply that it has little worth. A genuine book is a 
mirror in which we behold our proper countenance; but if we our- 
selves are unsightly, how shall we hope to see the reflection of a 
face clothed with beauty? He who gets from books only what 
they contain, knows not their proper use. The best service to be 


BOOKS 381 


had from them is not the information they impart, but the exercise 
of mind to which they impel. Many imagine that when an 
author is declared to be an atheist, a materialist, or a pantheist all 
that it is necessary to know of him has been said; but real minds 
strive to get at the thought of real minds, whatever their world- 
view be. ‘The phrase does not determine the thought, but springs 
from it; and if we wish to understand how well an author writes 
we must look first to what he intends to say. When the substance 
is known, the fitness of the expression is easily perceived. 

To have a conception which will not issue into light and form, 
and to struggle with it till the right word and the right phrase 
reveal themselves, and the thought springs forth like Minerva 
from the brain of Jove—this is to experience the creative force of 
genius. In every good style there is a quality which gives it 
vitality and charm, and which cannot be acquired, but is inborn. 
It is like the tone of voice, the manner and expression, which stamp 
one as a distinct individual. If the thought is clear and high, it 
will clothe itself in fit words. Inferior style implies inferior 
thinking. One might suggest Kant as an objection, but the last 
thing which may be asserted of his style is that it is inferior. 
Goethe said that to read him was like entering a well-lighted room. 
Confine thy reading to books which inspire and illumine, or give 
information on subjects in which a serious mind may take genuine 
interest. “The time we give to newspapers would, if rightly used, 
bring us to philosophical insight. If a masterpiece, consecrated by 
the consent of the competent, please thee not, be silent. “To con- 
demn were folly, to praise, insincerity. “The plaintive tone, which 
seems to rise from the depths of despair, sounding like the mur- 
murs Dante heard escaping from the pool of Malebolge, and which 
is frequent in the writings of Renan and other religious sceptics, 
is a false note in literature. “The author has not the right to be 
weak and cowardly, and if such knowledge as he has been able to 
get, takes from him hope and heart, he will hardly persuade us that 
it has worth. 

The best books have given most delight to their authors. How 
gladly Plutarch lives among his heroes and sages; with what cheer- 
ful contentment Montaigne makes his book, feeling that thereby he 
is making himself; into what a serene world the Emperor Marcus 
rises when he writes his thoughts! Plato has the spirit and light- 


382 JOHN LANCASTER SPALDING 


heartedness of a healthful youth; Chaucer rhymes his tales as 
merrily as birds trill their mating songs; and to turn to minds more 
intense, Dante and Milton forget their exile and blindness, while 
they sing of the eternal abodes of men, and of eternal light and 
-darkness. Bacon is like a mediciner, gathering healing herbs in 
‘flowery meads; and Descartes, for whom the hidden life is the 
:good life, sat quietly looking into his own mind and into nature, 
until all things were clothed for him with intelligibleness. Defoe 
‘is happy on his desert island, St. Pierre would linger always with 
‘his youthful lovers, and A Kempis leads forever his devout and 
-simple life. 

They who utter original thought are single and alone: but for 
-right minds they are more interesting than warriors with their 
-armies, than kings with their pomp and circumstance; and the 
‘interest they inspire endures while right minds endure. “The most 
-beautiful thoughts spring from remembered things which in far-off 
‘days mellowed the soul and suffused it with light. ‘They are like 
‘the wine which rose within the grapes of springs long gone, and 
‘which through years has grown rich and fragrant in cool and hid- 
‘den cellars. ‘There is a flavor in them which nothing but the hal- 
lowing influence of time and sorrow can give. ‘They are filled 
with the colors of dawns and sunsets, they are redolent of showers 
and dews; there is in them the odor of new-ploughed ground, and 
faint echoes of the laughter of children and of the lullabies of 
mothers rocking their babes to sleep. The whole earth is made 
fair and spiritual by the monuments and works of art, which all 
know, whether or not they have seen them. In thinking of 
Jerusalem, Athens, and Rome, we become more conscious of the 
divine element in humanity. They are symbols of what our race 
is worth. In the same way a man of genius, though we know of 
him scarcely more than his name, ennobles us all. ‘To these 
heights, we say to ourselves, one of our kind has ascended; we are 
not of base blood since we have such a brother. ‘To read a book 
with the understanding merely is to miss its true significance and 
power; for a genuine book is written by the whole man, and con- 
tains not merely what he knows, but it is athrill with what he 
thinks, dreams, imagines, hopes, believes, and loves. It is his 
living vesture woven by himself out of the substance of God and 
_all things. 


BOOKS 383 


They do not read books who complain of the endless making 
of books. A true reader is willing that thousands appear, if but 
one of them has worth, as the miner gladly throws up tons of 
earth, if here and there he find a precious stone. Huw is it pos- 
sible to live without literature, without intercourse with books, 
without nourishment for the spirit which makes us men? If thou 
findest nothing new in the book, it has at least helped thee to see 
how wise thou art. The wae soli does not apply to those who 
think, for they live with the truth which makes the universe alive 
with God’s presence. O Genius, sell not thy gifts to the rich and 
powerful nor yet to the rabble. “They were bestowed upon thee 
by God, for godlike uses. “Books,” says Hazlitt, “let us into the 
souls of men and lay open to us the secrets of our own. They are 
the first and last, the most homefelt, the most heartfelt of all our 
enjoyments.”’ 

We boast of having talked with a great poet or philosopher, 
whose books lie unopened on our shelves; and yet the conversation 
was commonplace, while what there was of genius in the man lives 
in these dust-covered volumes. If we could go to the tomb of a 
divine man and wake him and bid him speak, we should set the 
world agape and all men would be eager to listen. His book is 
his tomb, where he lies asleep, ready, if we wish, to shake off his 
slumber and tell us the best he knew and loved. As it is well to 
turn the young loose in gardens and fields, to permit them to wan- 
der in woods, over hills, and along flowing streams, so is it wise 
to place in their hands the best books, helping them to choose what 
pleases the fancy, quickens thought, raises the imagination, and 
purifies the heart. “To say that we are responsible for what we 
read is but to say that we are responsible for what we think and 
do, love and admire, hope and believe. Books make readers, as 
opportunities provoke endowments. ‘They are opportunities for 
spiritual growth. In them we discover not gold and precious 
stones, but ourselves lifted into the light and warmth of all that 
man knows and God has revealed. “To read the best books it is 
not enough to be attentive. We must linger in meditation over 
their pages, as in studying a work of art or a beautiful landscape, 
we love to stand in silence before it, that so, if possible, we may 
drink its life and spirit. | 


384 CHARLES WARREN STODDARD 


CHARLES (W:A.R,R EWN), 45) 130.D DA Ro 
1843—1909 


Charles Warren Stoddard, convert, journalist, teacher, poet, and 
essayist, was born in New York State in 1843. He went first to 
school in New York City. Illness prevented his attending college. 
He began to write verse at an early age, contributing anonymously 
to newspapers, but later putting out a small volume which he called 
Poems by Charles Warren Stoddard. 

In 1864 he made a trip to the South Sea Islands, where he wrote 
his Idyls, a series of letters. During several trips to the South Seas 
he composed Lazy Letters from Low Latitudes, The Island of Tran- 
quil Delights, and The Lepers of Molokai. 

He entered the Catholic Church in 1867, later writing of his con- 
version in A Troubled Heart and How It Was Comforted. Sent on 
a long, roving expedition in 1873 by the San Francisco Chronicle, he 
traveled in the Orient for five years, writing his impressions. 

Upon his return he was invited to occupy the chair of English 
literature at Notre Dame University, but ill health prevented his 
retaining the position for any length of time. He later held the same 
position at the Catholic University, from 1889 to 1902. 

Among his last writings are Exits and Entrances, With Staff and 
Scrip, Father Damien, and Confessions of a Reformed Poet. 


AVE MARIE BELLS 


AT DAWN, the joyful choir of bells, 
In consecrated citadels, 
Flings on the sweet and drowsy air 
A brief, melodious call to prayer; 
For Mary, Virgin meek and lowly, 5 
Conceived of the Spirit Holy, 
As the Lord’s angel did declare. 


At noon, above the fretful street, 

Our souls are lifted to repeat 
The prayer, with low and wistful voice: 10 
“According to thy word and choice, 


*Selections from the work of Charles Warren Stoddard are used by per- 
mission of Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc. 


STIGMATA 


Though sorrowful and heavy laden, 
So be it done to thy Handmaiden”’ ; 
Then all the sacred bells rejoice. 


At eve with roses in the west, 

The daylight’s withering bequest, 
Ring, prayerful bells, while blossom bright 
The stars, the lilies of the night: 

Of all the songs the years have sung us, 

“The Word made Flesh had dwelt among us,” 
Is still our ever-new delight. 


STIGMATA 


IN THE wrath of the lips that assail us, 
In the scorn of the lips that are dumb, 
‘The symbols of sorrow avail us, 
The joy of the people is come. 

They parted Thy garments for barter, 
They follow Thy steps with complaint; 
Let them know that the pyre of the martyr 

But purges the blood of the saint! 


They have crucified Thee for a token, 
For a token Thy flesh crucified 
Shall bleed in a heart that is broken 
For love of the wound in Thy side; 
In pity for palms that were pleading, 
For feet that were grievously used, 
There is blood on the brow that is bleeding 
And torn, as Thy brow that was bruised! 


By Thee have we life, breath, and being; 
Thou hast knowledge of us and our kind; 
Thou hast pleasure of eyes that are seeing, 
And sorrow of eyes that are blind; 
By the seal of the mystery shown us— 
The wound that with Thy wounds accord— 
O Lord, have mercy upon us! 
Have mercy upon us, O Lord! 


385 


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386 CHARLES WARREN STODDARD 


THE BELLS OF SAN GABRIEL 


(The Mission of San Gabriel Archangel, near Los Angeles, 
founded in 1771, was, for a time, the most flourishing mission in 
California.) 


‘THINE was the corn and the wine, 
The blood of the grape that nourished ; 
The blossom and fruit of the vine 
‘That was heralded far away. 
When the vine and fig-tree flourished. 5 
‘The promise of peace and of glad increase 
Forever and ever and aye. 
What then wert thou, and what art now? 
Answer me, O, I pray! 


And every note of every bell fe) 
Sang Gabriel! rang Gabriel! 

In the tower that is left the tale to tell 

Of Gabriel, the Archangel. 


Oil of the olive was thine; 
Flood of the wine-press flowing, 15 
Blood of the Christ was the wine— 
Blood of the lamb that was slain. 
Thy gifts were fat of the kine 
Forever coming and going 
Far over the hills, the thousand hills— 20 
Their lowing a soft refrain. 
What then wert thou, and what art now? 
Answer me once again! 


And every note of every bell 

Sang Gabriel! rang Gabriel! 25 
In the tower that is left the tale to tell 

Of Gabriel, the Archangel. 


Seed of the corn was thine— 
Body of Him thus broken 

And mingled with blood of the vine—= 30 
The bread and the wine of life. 


THE BELLS OF SAN GABRIEL 


Out of the good sunshine 
They were given to thee as a token— 
The body of Him, and the blood of Him, 
When the gifts of God were rife. 
What then wert thou, and what art now? 
After the weary strife? 


And every note of every bell 

Sang Gabriel! rang Gabriel! 

In the tower that is left the tale to tell 
Of Gabriel, the Archangel. 


Where are they now, O bells? 
Where are the fruits of the Mission ? 
Garnered, where no one dwells, 
Shepherd and flock are fled. 
O’er the Lord’s vineyard swells 
The tide that with fell perdition 
Sounded their doom and fashioned their tomb 
And buried them with the dead. 
What then wert thou, and what art now? 
The answer is still unsaid. 


And every note of every bell 

Sang Gabriel! rang Gabriel! 

In the tower that is left the tale to tell 
Of Gabriel, the Archangel. 


Where are they now, O tower! 

The locusts and wild honey? 
Where is the sacred dower 

That the bride of Christ was given? 
Gone to the wielders of power, 

The misers and minters of money; 
Gone for the greed that is their creed— 
And these in the land have thriven. 
What then wert thou, and what art now? 

And wherefore hast thou striven? 


387 


Sfp 


40 


45 


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60 


65 


388 GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS 


And every note of every bell 

Sang Gabriel! rang Gabriel! 

In the tower that is left the tale to tell 
Of Gabriel, the Archangel. 


GERARD UM: ANG Eo bt OPK TINS 
1844—-1889 


Gerard Manley Hopkins, poet and member of the Society of Jesus, 
was born at Stratford, not far from London. After a preliminary 
training at Cholmondeley, he proceeded to Oxford and entered 
Balliol College. 

In his twenty-third year he was received into the Church by 
Cardinal Newman himself and left Oxford to teach in the oratory 
at Birmingham under the direct influence of the Cardinal. Two 
years later, in 1868, he began his career as a member of the Society 
of Jesus. He preached for a while in London and then returned to 
Oxford to serve in St. Aloysius Church. For a time he worked in 
the slums of Liverpool. Next he became professor at Stonyhurst. 
And at last he was appointed as classical examiner at Dublin, having 
been elected Fellow of the Royal University of Ireland in 1884. 
Five years afterward, having contracted a fever, he died. 

Father Hopkins possessed a rare poetic gift, one which, perhaps, 
had the duties of his vocation been less rigorous so that its expression 
could have been more abundant, would have placed him high among 
the poets of England. Moreover, such were his endowments of per- 
sonality that his friend, Dr. Robert Bridges, the poet-laureate, has 
written of his possessing “humor, great personal charm, and the most 
attractive virtues of a tender and sympathetic nature.” 


THE STARLIGHT NIGHT 


Loox at the stars! lo, look up at the skies! 
O look at all the fire-folk sitting in the air! 
The bright boroughs, the quivering citadels there! 
The dim woods quick with diamond wells; the elf-eyes! 
The gray lawns cold where quaking gold-dew lies! 5 
Wind-beat white-beam; airy abeles all on flare! 
Flake-doves sent floating out at a farmyard scare!— 
Ah well! it is a purchase and a prize. 
1Starlight Night, Habit of Perfection, Spring and Heaven Haven 


from the works of Gerard Hopkins, are reprinted by arrangement with 
the Oxford University Press, owners of the copyright. 


THE HABIT OF PERFECTION 389 


Buy then! Bid then!—What?—Prayer, patience, alms, vows— 
Look, look! a May-mess, like on orchard boughs; IO 
Look! March-bloom, like on mealed-with-yellow sallows. 
These are indeed the barn: within-doors house 
The shocks. ‘This piece-bright paling hides the Spouse 
Christ, and the mother of Christ and all his hallows. 


THE HABIT OF PERFECTION 


ELECTED Silence, sing to me 
And beat upon thy whorled ear, 
Pipe me to pastures still and be 
The music that I care to hear. 


Shape nothing, lips; be lovely-dumb: 5 
It is the shut, the curfew sent 

From there where all surrenders come 

Which only make you eloquent. 


Be shelled, eyes with double dark 

And find the uncreated light; 10 
This ruck and reel which you remark 

Coils, keeps, and teases simple sight. 


Palate, the hutch of tasty lust, 

Desire not to be rinsed with wine; 

‘The can must be so sweet, the crust 15 
So fresh that come in fasts divine! 


Nostrils, your careless breath that spend 

Upon the stir and keep of pride, 

What relish shall the censers send 

Along the sanctuary side! 20 


O feel-of-primrose hands, O feet 

That want the yield of plushy sward, 
But you shall walk the golden street, 
And you unhouse and house the Lord. 


39° 


GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS 


And, Poverty, be thou the bride 25 
And now the marriage feast begun, 

And lily-colored clothes provide 

Your spouse not labored-at, nor spun. 


SPRING 


NoTHING is so beautiful as spring— 
When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush; 
Thrush’s eggs look little low heavens, and thrush 
Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring 
‘The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing; 5 
The glassy pear-tree leaves and blooms, they brush 
The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush 
With richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling, 


What is all this juice and all this joy? 

A strain of the earth’s sweet being in the beginning 10 
In Eden garden. Have, get, before it cloy, 

Before it cloud, Christ, Lord, and sour with shining, 
Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy, 

Most, O maid’s child, thy choice and worthy the winning. 


BARNFLOOR AND WINEPRESS 


THou who on Sin’s wages starvest, 

Behold we have the Joy of Harvest: 

For us was gathered the First-fruits, 

For us was lifted from the roots, 

Sheaved in cruel bands, bruiséd sore, 5 
Scourged upon the threshing floor, 

Where the upper millstone roofed His Head, 

At morn we found the Heavenly Bread; 

And on a thousand altars laid, 

Christ our Sacrifice is made. 10 


HEAVEN HAVEN 


Thou, whose dry plot for moisture gapes, 
We shout with them that tread the grapes; 
For us the Vine was fenced with thorn, 
Five ways the precious branches torn. 
Terrible fruit was on the tree 

In the acre of Gethsemane: 

For us by Calvary’s distress 

The wine was racked from the press; 
Now, in our altar-vessels stored, 

Lo, the sweet vintage of the Lord! 


In Joseph’s garden they threw by 

The riven Vine, leafless, lifeless, dry: 

On Easter morn the Tree was forth, 

In forty days reached Heaven from earth, 
Soon the whole world is overspread: 

Ye weary, come into the shade. 


The field where He hath planted us 
Shall shake her fruit as Libanus, 
When He has sheaved us in His sheaf, 
When He has made us bear His leaf. 
We scarcely call that banquet food, 
But even our Saviour’s and our blood, 
We are so grafted on His wood. 


HEAVEN HAVEN 


A NUN TAKES THE VEIL 


I HAVE desired to go 
Where springs not fail, 

To fields where flies no sharp and sided hail, 
And a few lilies blow. 


And I have asked to be 
Where no storms come, 
Where the green swell is in the havens dumb, 
And out of the swing of the sea. 


39! 


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392 GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS 


ROSA MYSTICA 


THE rose is a mystery-——where is it found? 

Is it anything true? Does it grow upon ground? 

It was made of earth’s mould, but it went from men’s eyes, 
And its place is a secret and shut in the skies. 


In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine, 
Find me a place by thee, mother of mine. 


But where was it formerly? Which is the spot 
‘That was blest in it oncé, though now it is not? 
It is Galilee’s growth: it grew at God’s will 
And broke into bloom upon Nazareth hill. 


In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine, 
I shall look on thy loveliness, mother of mine. 


What was its season then? How long ago? 

When was the summer that saw the bud blow? 

Two thousands of years are near upon past 

Since its birth and its bloom and its breathing its last. 


In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine, 
I shall keep time with thee, mother of mine. 


Tell me the name now, tell me its name. 
The heart guesses easily: is it the same? 

Mary the Virgin, well the heart knows, 
She is the mystery, she is that rose. 


In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine, 
I shall come home to thee, mother of mine. 


Is Mary the rose then? Mary, the tree? 

But the blossom, the blossom there—who can it be? 
Who can her rose be? It could but be One 

Christ Jesus our Lord, her God and her son. 


In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine, 
Show me thy son, mother, mother of mine. 


IO 


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ROSA MYSTICA 393 


What was the color of that blossom bright ?— 

White to begin with, immaculate white. 

But what a wild flush on the flakes of it stood 

When the rose ran in crimsonings down the cross-wood! 


In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine 35 
I shall worship His wounds with thee, mother of mine. 


How many leaves had it Five they were then, 

Five, like the senses and members of men; 

Five is their number by nature, but now 

They multiply, multiply—who can tell ? 40 


In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine 
Make me a leaf in thee, mother of mine. 


Does it smell sweet, too, in that holy place? 

Sweet unto God and the sweetness is grace: 

The breath of it bathes great heaven above 45 
In grace that is charity, grace that is love. 


To thy breast, to thy rest, to thy glory divine 
Draw me by charity, mother of mine. 


JOHN BANISTER TABB 
1845—1909 


John Banister Tabb, teacher, priest, and poet, was born in Vir- 
ginia in 1845. He began his education under private tutors, but at 
the age of fourteen he was forced to stop study because of failing 
sight. From books, therefore, he turned to music, in which he be- 
came highly proficient. 

At the outbreak of the Civil War he enlisted in the Confederate 
navy, serving until 1864, when he was taken prisoner and confined at 


1§elections from the work of John Banister Tabb are reprinted from 
Later Poems by permission of, and arrangement with, Mr. Mitchell Ken- 
erley, owner of the copyright. 


394 JOHN BANISTER TABB 


Point Lookout. Released from prison almost a year later, he found 
a position as a teacher in Baltimore. 

In 1872 he entered the Catholic Church and attended St. Charles 
College in preparation for the priesthood. Upon completing his 
studies, however, he was retained as a teacher of English. Hence 
his theological studies were interrupted for several years, postpon- 
ing his ordination until 1884. 

After being ordained he nevertheless remained at St. Charles Col- 
lege to teach English. In fact, teaching was the principal occupation 
of his life, until total blindness came upon him. 

Although officially he was a teaching priest, he must remain for 
posterity a poet. Possessed of a gifted mind, a cultivated taste, and 
a talent for music to a more than ordinary degree, he wrote poems 
that were eagerly sought by the highest type magazines and read with 
avidity by an ever increasing circle of readers. 

Always short, always perfectly symmetrical, and always con- 
cretely personal, his poems, as successive collections of them appeared, 
have become a permanent contribution to American literature. 


MY NEIGHBOR 


My NEIGHBOR as myself to love, 
Thou hast commanded me, 
And in obedience I prove 


That Thou Thyself art he. 


THE BIRTHDAY 


ANOTHER blossom blooms for thee 

Upon the never-failing Tree 

Of Life—the same in breath and hue 

As was the first that drank the dew, 

When God within His garden stood 5 
Alone, and found it ‘‘very good.” 


So be it, when—thy garden done, 

And all thy labors one by one 

Recorded—thro’ the twilight dim 

He comes to bid thee walk with Him 10 
Into a vaster solitude, 

Thou too behold it very good! 


“T AM THE WAY” 395 


THE GOOD THIEF 


Ir THOU, like Zacheus, wouldst see 
Thy Lord and Master, climb the tree, 
And for His passing wait with me. 


Here, nearer to its native skies, 
No intervening darkness lies 5 
Between the soul and Paradise. 


Was ever mortal penance brief 
As mine? A moment of belief— 
Turnkey of Heaven, beware—a thief! 


All Ory MoennyeN ET 


1850—1923 


Alice Meynell( née Thompson), poet, was born in London in 1850. 
She was educated at home, but spent much of her early life in Italy. 
Her first book of verse, Preludes, was published in 1876. Her life 
was quiet and uneventful, spent for the most part in literary pursuits 
in company with Wilfrid Meynell, editor and critic, with whom she 
contracted an early marriage, and with Francis Thompson, for whom 
she and her husband acted as friends and patrons. 

Mrs. Meynell’s verse is highly intellectualized but permeated 
throughout with a degree of spirituality and religious emotion that is 
to be compared only with the work of Francis Thompson. 


“I AM THE WAY” 


THov art the Way. 
Hadst Thou been nothing but the goal, 
I cannot say 
If Thou hadst ever met my soul. 
1Selections from the work of Alice Meynell are reprinted by permission 


of, and arrangement with, Charles Scribner’s Sons, owners of the copy- 
right. 


396 


ALICE MEYNELL 


I cannot see— 

I, child of process—if there lies 
An end for me, 

Full of repose, full of replies. 


I’ll not reproach 
The road that winds, my feet that err. 
Access, approach, 


Art Thou, Time, Way, and Wayfarer. 


CHRIST IN THE UNIVERSE 


Wirth this ambiguous earth 
His dealings have been told us. ‘These abide: 
The signal to a maid, the human birth, 
The lesson, and the young Man crucified. 


But not a star of all 
The innumerable host of stars has heard 
How He administered this terrestrial ball. 
Our race have kept their Lord’s entrusted Word, 


Of His earth-visiting feet 
None knows the secret, cherished, perilous, 
The terrible, shamefast, frightened, whispered, sweet, 
Heart-shattering secret of His way with us. 


No planet knows that this 
Our wayside planet, carrying land and wave, 
Love and life multiplied, and pain and bliss, 
Bears, as chief treasure, one forsaken grave. 


Nor, in our little day, 
May His devices with the heavens be guessed, 
His pilgrimage to thread the Milky Way, 
Or His bestowals there be manifest. 


10 


IO 


15 


20 


THE CRUCIFIXION 


But in the eternities 
Doubtless we shall compare together, hear 
A million alien Gospels, in what guise 
He trod the Pleiades, the Lyre, the Bear. 


O, be prepared, my soul! 
To read the inconceivable, to scan 
The million forms of God those stars unroll 
When, in our turn, we show to them a Man. 


RENOUNCEMENT 


I must not think of thee; and, tired yet strong, 

I shun the thought that lurks in all delight— 

The thought of thee—and in the blue Heaven’s height, 
And in the sweetest passage of a song. 


Oh, just beyond the fairest thoughts that throng 
This breast, the thought of thee waits, hidden yet bright; 
But it must never, never come in sight; 

I must stop short of thee the whole day long. 


But when sleep comes to close each difficult day, 
When night gives pause to the long watch I keep, 
And all my bonds I needs must loose apart, 


Must doff my will as raiment laid away,— 
With the first dream that comes with the first sleep, 
I run, I run, I am gathered to thy heart. 


THE CRUCIFIXION 
““A PALTRY SACRIFICE” 
(Preface to a Play) 


OH, MAN’s capacity 
For spiritual sorrow, corporal pain! 
Who has explored the deepmost of that sea, 
With heavy links of a far-fathoming chain? 


397 


25 


5 


Ic 


398 MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN 


That melancholy lead, 5 
Let down in guilty and in innocent hold, 
Yea into childish hands delivered, 
Leaves the sequestered floor unreached, untold. 


One only has explored 
The deepmost; but He did not die of it. 10 
Not yet, not yet He died. Man’s human Lord 
Touched the extreme; it is not infinite. 


But, over the abyss 
Of God’s capacity for woe He stayed 
One hesitating hour; what gulf was this? 15 
Forsaken He went down, and was afraid. 


MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN 
1852——1924 


Maurice Francis Egan, editor, teacher, diplomat, and author, was 
born in Philadelphia in 1852. He was educated at Martin’s Latin 
school of that city, at La Salle College, and at Notre Dame University, 

After graduation he became sub-editor and editor of a number of 
Catholic journals before going to Notre Dame as professor of Eng- 
lish literature. In 1907, continuing his career as an academic, he 
became dean at the Catholic University. 

A year later, however, President Roosevelt appointed him minister 
to Denmark, a post which he held with distinction until a few years 
before his death, in 1924. ! 

Or. Egan was the author of many books, the most distinguished 
among them being, perhaps, Songs and Sonnets, The Ghost in Hamlet 
and Other Essays, and The Wiles of Sexton Maginnis. 


THE SOUL OF MAGINNIS' 
From THE WILES OF MAGINNIS 


ISTER MARGARET?S rosy face looked more rosy as the 

S fresh, frosty air struck her cheeks. “The convent habit— 
supposed by the romancers to represent a pensive soul dead 

to all human interests—had no manner of special detachment in 


“Reprinted by arrangement with The Century Co., owners of the copy- 
right. 


THE SOUL OF MAGINNIS 399 


her case; it fitted very well with the air of bustle that pervaded 
the city landscape. Every negro for miles around was shoveling 
snow from pavements, and Sister Margaret, who was of an ener- 
getic turn, clasped her hands in despair within her spotless sleeves 
as she viewed the movements of two black “boys” of forty and 
sixty on the pavement of the convent. Pompey and Caesar turned 
their spades with the graceful languor of those who wave fans in 
the heat of summer. 

“It’s me—it’s I,” she said, correcting herself, for, although Sis- 
ter Margaret was not a teaching sister, she was a grammatical 
purist——“‘it’s I that would like to tuck up my habit and get down 
amongst them. Sure, one Kerry man would do more in half an 
hour with his hands than all of them with their wooden spades.” 

There had been a ring at the convent doorbell, and Sister Mar- 
garet had, in the temporary absence of the portress, opened it; but 
no one was in sight. 

Sister Margaret, from her position on the high steps, looked 
about sharply. A young girl with dancing blue eyes, a sprightly 
step, and high bows in her hat as blue as her eyes, went by, smiling 
and nodding at the good sister. 

“Mary Ann Magee,” she said to herself; “and it’s Mary Ann 
Magee here and Mary Ann Magee there, with her blue bows and 
her gay ways, and the foolish young men paying her attention, and 
her mother working away at the wash-tub. ’Tis the way with 
Irish mothers—they’re foolish and tender with their children. 
Mrs. Magee is a Tipperary woman, and Tipperary isn’t Kerry. 
And what did you want?” 

Sister Margaret was accustomed to tramps. The convent was 
by no means rich, and the prioress, Mother Juliet, had some 
economic notions about the treatment of the poor who could work; 
but nevertheless, and in spite of Sister Margaret’s cool and de- 
liberate gaze, which pierced through the excuses of men, the weary 
if not always worthy wanderer found the convent alms plain but 
bounteous. 

The man who had suddenly bobbed up from under the iron 
steps had a gray kitten in his hand. His reddish, uncut hair had 
made its way under thefbattered crown of his hat. His upper gar- 
ment, buttoned close to the chin, was a coat of the kind once called 
“Prince Albert,” glossy, worn; and it had evidently been made for 


400 MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN 


a much shorter person, and this man was very tall. His shoes 
were tied with rope, and his pink, frost-bitten wrists shone below 
the frayed sleeves of the glossy coat. 

“Another drinking man, I suppose, 
discontentedly. 

One look at the clear complexion, marred by several weeks’ 
growth of sandy-colored hair, undeceived her. She knew her 
world well, and tramps were as much of her world as the innocent 
little boys who beseeched her for molasses and bread between 
school hours. “There was an honest look in the helpless brown 
eyes of the man that to her experienced gaze showed that he was 
not of the vicious class. 

“It’s some woman to manage him—poor creature!—he needs. 
It’s the way with half the men—their mothers don’t live long 
enough, and the wives most of them get are without gumption at 
all. Well, what is it, my good man?” she asked in her profes- 
sional tone. 

“T am sorry to keep you waitin’, sisther,”’ said the man, with a 
rich brogue, “but I just jumped down to pick up this poor omad- 
haun of a little cat, that’s got itself almost frozen.” 

The sister examined the stiff ball of gray fur. 

“T’ll take it. Sure, if Sister Rosalie can’t bring it to life by the 
kitchen fire it must be dead entirely.” 

“Ts there any work for me, sisther?” 

That brogue—the brogue of her place in Kerry—went to Sister 
Margaret’s heart. She knew that Mother Juliet’s economic theo- 
ries would not be softened by the fact that a tramp had a Kerry 
brogue, for the poor prioress, with all her learning, scarcely knew 
the brogue when she heard it! She was well aware, too, that the 
helplessness of any man would never appeal sufficiently to Mother 
Juliet to cause her to make work for him when the resources of 
the convent were taxed to pay the retainers absolutely needed for 
the care of the heating apparatus and other details which Sister 
Margaret’s capable hands could not touch. Something to eat, and 
perhaps a note of appeal for him to some kind priest, were all Sis- 
ter Margaret saw, in her mind’s eye, for the pathetic Kerry man. 

Still, Mother Juliet had one weakness, and this was for souls. 
She would go far for a strayed sheep; and if this man’s soul were 
in danger, he might be taken on to sift the ashes and to help with 


) 


thought Sister Margaret, 


) 


Pd 
THE SOUL OF*MAGINNIS 4ot 


the boiler until his spiritual health should be restored. With fear 
and trembling and the sound of the old homely inflection in her 
ears, Sister Margaret asked the question: 

“Do you go regularly to mass, my good man?” 

The man hung his head, and even the wisp of hair that strag- 
gled beneath his hat seemed to grow redder. Sister Margaret’s 
face was illuminated with a beautiful and hopeful smile. 

“Tell the truth, now, as you’re an honest man,” she said. 

‘’To tell the truth as an honest man,” replied the applicant, with 
lead on his voice, ‘‘I’ve been neglectful. I’ve been to mass off and 
on the year, but not reg’lar.”’ 

‘And have you gone to your duties?” continued Sister Mar- 
garet, knowing well that her hopes for her compatriot depended 
largely on his having not done nearly everything he ought to have 
done. ‘The man blushed and hesitated. Sister Margaret tried to 
assume a professional manner as portress. 

“T’ve not been reg’lar,” he said. ‘If I were near the holy sis- 
thers, and workin’ for them, maybe God would give me the 
grace “ 

“Have you been away from your duties for more than a year?” 
asked Sister Margaret, with apprehension. 

“Oh, it’s me that’s ashamed to confess it!” said the man. “It’s 
me that’s ashamed sisther, to say three years and more, come 
Easther.” 

“Thanks be to God!” said Sister Margaret, involuntarily. 
“You're in mortal sin, man! Go back to the kitchen gate, and I'll 
tell Mother Juliet.” 

Mother Juliet had just come into the old-fashioned parlor 
through the great mahogany doors of Henry Clay’s time when 
Sister Margaret entered. She held Street’s “Economics for 
Young Minds,” and the chapter on “Money” was marked by a 
lace-edged picture of St. Stephen with a large arrow in his side. 
Her most important class was over, and as she had put her whole 
heart in it, she was tired and absent-minded. Sister Margaret 
loved and revered her; but, as she was a convert and not from 
Kerry, Sister Margaret often felt that she needed unusual man- 
agement. 

‘Well, my dear sister?” asked the prioress, looking, in her white 
robe, like a very tired and well-bred statue. 





402 MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN 


“Tt’s a soul, reverend mother, that’s waiting nourishment and 
work at the back gate,”’ said Sister Margaret—“a soul 4 

“Yes, yes,” said the prioress. “Well, sister, you know what to 
do. There are tickets for the Charitable Association on the man- 
telpiece in the kitchen. Although, of course, I agree with the tra- 
ditions of the Church as to alms-giving, yet I cannot help thinking 
that the sanest way in which to treat our fellow-creatures must be 
based on scientific principles. In the Holy Fathers’ encyclical on 
labor ‘1 

“Ah, since I heard Father Dudley’s sermon on “The Husks of 
Science,’ it’s little I care for it, reverend mother. ‘There’s a poor 
soul at the gate, mother, that hasn’t been to his duty for three 
years, and the number of times he has missed mass I can’t yi 

“Dear, dear! You don’t tell me so, Sister Margaret!” 

“And it’s little good the tickets of the Charitable Association 
will do a poor man in a state of sin.” 

“Give him a good cup of coffee, and send him with a note to 
Father Dudley. He will touch the poor man’s heart and lead 
him to confession. Sister Margaret, I notice that the window- 
panes in the laundry are not so clear i 

“Tt’s little you know of the heart of man, reverend mother,” 
said Sister Margaret; “‘little you know! It’s not the higher edu- 
cation that will help you there. If you were brought up with the 
farming-folk in the old country, things would be different. The 
heart of a man ii 

A smile hovered about the edges of the prioress’s lips. She un- 
derstood the heart of woman well enough to see dimly into Sister 
Margaret’s plan. 

“Well,” she said, with the impatience of these details caused by 
absorption in her thoughts of her own teaching—*‘‘well, do what 
you can; but remember, we are poorer than even our vow of pov- 
erty requires, Sister Margaret. You, in your great kindness, 
forget that our resources are not what they once were since the 
railway, with its locomotives crossing the street, has injured the 
school. Give him something for doing the laundry windows.” 

“T can’t forget, reverend mother,” said Sister Margaret, ‘‘that 
there’s a soul to be saved.” 

“Set him to work then,” answered the prioress, growing graver 
at once, “and I will go,” she added rather timidly, ‘‘and read some- 

















THE SOUL OF MAGINNIS 403 


thing spiritual to him. There are some beautiful passages in St. 
Francis de Sales, and he may be an intelligent man.” 

“Little she knows, God help her!” thought Sister Margaret. 
“Sure, a good talk of old Kerry days will be better for the boy than 
all the spiritual reading in the world.” 

The prioress was relieved by the look of hesitancy on Sister 
Margaret’s face. 

“You know better, sister, how to deal with the case; but get the 
poor man off to Father Dudley at once, just as soon as you see him 
softening a little.” 

“Tt’s strange,” thought the prioress, with a gentle perception of 
the situation, “that all Sister Margaret’s distressed souls are 
lekiene ’ 

In a few minutes Lewis Maginnis was at work, on a ladder in 
the laundry, battling with that small amount of matter that sel- 
dom gets out of place in a convent. His story was plain. He 
had drifted from a Kerry farm. It was evident that he was sim- 
ple, good-natured, rather soft in temperament, and at the beck of 
circumstances. He had worked when he could find work for his 
unskilled hands; when the winter came on he had drifted again— 
southward this time. 

In the course of a long and busy life Sister Margaret had never 
enjoyed herself so much as on the afternoon of her meeting with 
Lewis Maginnis. Here was material made for her molding hand, 
clay ready for the potter; here was an opportunity of furthering 
the progress, spiritual and material, of a soul from her part of 
Ireland, and of having her own way in a good cause. 

Sister Rosalie, who ruled the kitchen, was urged to unusual 
efforts in the way of coffee and waffles by a graphic description of 
Lewis Maginnis’s aptitude for fetching and carrying, for this 
serving sister had reason to regard the colored masculine aids as 
trifling. 

Maginnis himself was delightfully docile and sufficiently re- 
spectful. In the twenty-five years of his life he had never done 
anything but what circumstances compelled him to do. It was 
cordial indeed to find circumstances impersonated by such a kindly 
and motherly force as Sister Margaret. 

When he had finished the laundry windows, refreshed himself 
with unlimited waffles and coffee, and sifted the ashes, Sister 


404 MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN 


Margaret sent him over to the Widow Magee’s to enter there as a 
rodger until her inventive mind could discover some new means of 
employment for him. 

“He has the making of a decent man in him,” Sister Margaret 
thought, as she watched him cross the wide street. “Heaven 
knows how he’s to pay for his lodging at the end of the week; but 
God is good. It wouldn’t be safe to send him over there with 
Mary Ann about, if I knew she wouldn’t try to make a fool of 
him,—at least, till he has a new suit of clothes,—the creature!” 

Still, Sister Margaret had her doubts. She respected the 
Widow Magee’s virtues, and she helped her in many ways, but 
she felt that, once out of her sight, the widow was the abject slave 
of her frivolous daughter with the aggressive blue bows. 

Lewis Maginnis was provided with a warm room for the 
present, and Sister Margaret, at the sound of one of the many 
bells which are as the voice of God, dismissed him from her mind. 
He appeared on the next morning early, very much improved by a 
bath and a razor, and with a hat, a little too large, which had once 
belonged to the late lamented Magee. 

Mother Juliet, absorbed as she was, could not help observing 
that Maginnis seemed to be gradually replacing all the other inter- 
mittent “help.” The colored “boys” disappeared, Pompey— 
whose soul had been saved several times, and who had spiritual re- 
lapses whenever he wanted unusual attention—going last. 

‘Maginnis seems to be a hard worker,” Mother Juliet said one 
day as she examined the crystal-clear laundry windows. 

“He is that, reverend mother,’ answered Sister Margaret, with 
a just pride; “and Father Dudley has him to serve his mass nearly 
every day, and sometimes he blows the organ when there’s a funeral 
in the chapel.” 

“T trust he will not neglect our work,” said the prioress, in 
alarm. 

“You can depend on that, reverend mother,’ answered Sister 
Margaret. “Such a conscientious worker with the ashes I never 
saw.” 

Mother Juliet looked pleased. “To have a man at peace with 
his Creator and capable of looking after the boiler and the ashes 
was an unusual thing. 

Sister Margaret’s plans for the advancement of Lewis Magin- 


THE SOUL OF MAGINNIS 405 


nis were more and more successful; and Mrs. Magee, who now 
received a modest stipend from her lodger, seconded them warmly. 
Maginnis of April 30 was no longer Maginnis of February 3. A 
transformation had taken place. He was erect, respectably clad, 
alert, well shaven on Wednesdays and Sundays, and still the very 
symbol of docility. If Sister Margaret had been devoid of 
artistic feeling, she would have let the result of her work alone; 
but a retainer of the church retired from active service, and Sister 
Margaret at once suggested her protége to Father Dudley. 

One of the colored ‘‘boys’”—Pompey—was recalled to make up 
the lapses in convent attendance. Mother Juliet was alarmed; 
there was a noticeable difference in the laundry windows. 

“It’s for the good of his soul that he should be as near Father 
Dudley as possible, reverend mother,” spoke Sister Margaret. 

Mother Juliet had nothing to say to this, but she could not help 
hoping that Sister Margaret’s next treasure would have a less 
sensitive soul. 

Maginnis rose more and more in favor with the fathers at the 
church. This Sister Margaret noticed with pleasure. ‘The artist 
was strong within her, and already she had forgotten the interests 
of the convent in the vision of Lewis Maginnis as sexton of the 
big church. 

‘““A Kerry boy, too,” she said to herself; “‘and he’ll soon be with 
a button-hole bouquet in his coat, showing the sisters to their pew 
of a Sunday.” 

Pompey was at work for good—or for bad—and Caesar had re- 
turned; Maginnis came only with messages from the church, or 
to give counsel when something went wrong with the boiler. 
Mother Juliet missed him, but she was silent; she had become 
tired of his soul. 

On Easter Sunday Sister Margaret’s dream was realized. 
Beaming with pride, his red hair shining above his black coat, 
which held a large red rosebud, stood Lewis Maginnis beside the 
church door, waiting for the sisters to arrive. [hey came, and, 
as Maginnis led the way to their pew, Sister Margaret felt all the 
justifiable pride of a sculptor whose statue has been bought by a 
really appreciative patron. 

In the afternoon Maginnis came to the convent—by the front 
door, as he had at first come. He asked for Sister Margaret, and 


406 FRANCIS THOMPSON 


laid his glossy silk hat on the big volume of Butler’s “Lives of the 
Saints” that graced the table. 

“Well, Lewis Maginnis,” said Sister Margaret, entering with 
Sister Rosalie. ‘Tis a happy man you ought to be.” 

“And I am, sisther—thanks be to God and you.” 

“Tt is I had little to do with it, Maginnis,” said Sister Mar- 
garet, with much humility. 

Maginnis blushed. 

“Tf it wasn’t for you, sisther, I’d never have met her.” 

There was a pause. A light flashed upon Sister Margaret. 

“And so you’re going to settle down—and it’s well,” said Sister 
Margaret, nodding as one who knows the heart of man. ‘There 
is no better woman living than Mrs. Magee. And I hope you'll 
both keep that Mary Ann in order.” 

“Tt was Mrs. Magee I thought of first,” said Maginnis, with 
simplicity, “but Herself thought I’d better take Mary Ann, as it 
would steady her; and Magee in his grave only ten months would 
set the neighbors talking.” 

Sister Margaret did not speak. A vision of the high blue bows 
obscured the ruddy smile of Lewis Maginnis. When she spoke 
it was as if to a far-distant man. 

She had assisted him successfully in his evolution. Spiritually, 
he was in a state of grace; physically, he was as the dragon-fly to 
the tadpole; artistically, he was what she had conceived he ought 
to be. He looked, as he stood in the parlor, with a rosebud in his 
lapel, the ideal sexton. And yet 





ERAN DS HON Eo GaN: 
1859—-1907 


Francis Thompson, poet and critic, was born in Lancashire in 
1859 to parents who were converts to the faith. His father was a 
physician, and the young Thompson was early designed for that pro- 
fession. Obtaining his primary education at Ushaw, he later entered 
Owens College at Manchester to study medicine. But medicine 
held ne attraction for him. 


*Selections from the work of Francis Thompson are reprinted by the 
kind permission of Mr. Wilfrid Meynell, owner of the copyright. 


TO MY GODCHILD—FRANCIS M. W. M. | 407 


| 

He soon found his way to London to launch himself as a writer. 
After experiences as tragic as those undergone by the youthful Chat- 
terton he was found by Mr. Wilfrid Meynell, editor of Merry Eng- 
land, who made it possible for him to pursue his literary career. 

His first publication was Poems, which appeared in 1893. Next 
came Sister Songs in 1895. His third volume, New Poems, was pub- 
lished in 1897. During the remaining ten years of his life he wrote 
little besides his Life of St. Ignatius except a few discerning reviews. 

Soon after his death in 1907, however, appeared his Shelley, than 
which there is probably no better example of subjective criticism in 
English literature. It was this essay that began his fame, a fame 
that has been gradually upon the increase ever since, until now the 
name of Francis Thompson is fast becoming recognized as that of a 
great poet, if not, indeed, that of a rare genius. 


TO MY GODCHILD—FRANCIS M. W. M. 


Tuis laboring, vast, Tellurian galleon, 

Riding at anchor off the orient sun, 

Had broken its cable, and stood out to space 

Down some frore Arctic of the aérial ways: 

And now, back warping from the inclement main, 5 
Its vaporous shroudage drenched with icy rain, 

It swung into its azure roads again; 

When, floated on the prosperous sun-gale, you 

Lit, a white halcyon auspice, ’mid our frozen crew. 


To the Sun, stranger, surely you belong, 10 
Giver of golden days and golden song; 

Nor is it by an all-unhappy plan 

You bear the name of me, his constant Magian. 

Yet ah! from any other that it came, 

Lest fated to my fate you be, as to my name. 15 
When at the first those tidings did they bring, 

My heart turned troubled at the ominous thing: 

Though well may such a title him endower, 

For whom a poet’s prayer implores a poet’s power. 

The Assisian, who kept plighted faith to three, 20 
To Song, to Sanctitude, and Poverty, 

(In two alone of whom most singers prove 

A fatal faithfulness of during love!) ; 


+ 


408 


FRANCIS THOMPSON 


He the sweet Sales, of whom we scarcely ken 

How God he could love more, he so loved men; 

The crown and crowned of Laura and Italy; 

And Fletcher’s fellow—from these, and not from me, 
‘Take you your name, and take your legacy! 


Or, if a right successive you declare 

When worms, for ivies, intertwine my hair, 

Take but this Poesy that now followeth 

My clayey hest with sullen servile breath, 

Made then your happy freedman by testating death. 
My song I do but hold for you in trust, 

I ask you but to blossom from my dust. 

When you have compassed all weak I began, 
Diviner poet, and ah! diviner man; 

The man at feud with the perduring child 

In you before Song’s altar nobly reconciled ; 
From the wise heavens I half shall smile to see 
How little a world, which owned you, needed me. 
If, while you keep the vigils of the night, 

For your wild tears make darkness all too bright, 
Some lone orb through your lonely window peeps, 
As it played lover over your sweet sleeps. 

Think it a golden crevice in the sky, 

Which I have pierced but to hold you by! 


And when, immortal mortal, droops your head, 
And you, the child of deathless song, are dead; 
‘Then, as you search with unaccustomed glance 
The ranks of Paradise for my countenance, 
Turn not your tread along the Uranian sod 
Among the bearded counsellors of God; 

For if in Eden as on earth are we, 

I sure shall keep a younger company: 

Pass where beneath their ranged gonfalons 
The starry cohorts shake their shielded suns, 
‘The dreadful mass of their enridged spears; 
Pass where majestical the eternal peers, 


25 


30 


35 


40 


45 


50 


55 


LITTLE JESUS 409 


The stately choice of the great Saintdom, meet— 60 
A silvern segregation, globed complete 

In sandaled shadow of the Triune feet; 

Pass by where wait, young poet-wayfarer, 

Your cousined clusters, emulous to share 

With you the roseal lightnings burning ’mid their hair; 65 
Pass the crystalline sea, the Lampads seven :— 

Look for me in the nurseries of Heaven. 


LITTLE JESUS 


Ex ore infantium, Deus, et lacentium perfecisti laudem 


LitTLe JEsus, wast Thou shy 

Once, and just so small as I? 

And what did it feel like to be 

Out of Heaven, and just like me? 

Didst Thou sometimes think of there, 5 
And ask where all the angels were? 

I should think that I would cry 

For my house all made of sky; 

I would look about the air, 

And wonder where my angels were; 10 
And at waking ’twould distress me— 

Not an angel there to dress me! 

Hadst Thou ever any toys, 

Like us little girls and boys? 

And didst Thou play in Heaven with all 15 
The angels that were not too tall, 

With stars for marbles? Did the things 

Play Can you see me? through their wings? 

And did Thy Mother let Thee spoil 

Thy robes, with playing on our soil? 20 
How nice to have them always new 

In Heaven, because ’twas quite clean blue! 


Didst Thou kneel at night to pray, 

And didst Thou join Thy hands, this way? 

And did they tire sometimes, being young, 25 
And make the prayer seem very long? 


410 


FRANCIS THOMPSON 


And dost Thou like it best, that we 
Should join our hands to pray to Thee? 

I used to think, before I knew, 

The prayer not said unless we do. 

And did Thy Mother at the night 

Kiss ‘Thee, and fold the clothes in right? 
And didst Thou feel quite good in bed, 
Kissed, and sweet, and Thy prayers said? 
Thou canst not have forgotten all 

That it feels like to be small: 

And Thou know’st I cannot pray 

To Thee in my father’s way— 

When Thou was so little, say, 

Couldst Thou talk Thy Father’s way ?— 


So, a little Child, come down 

And Hear a child’s tongue like Thy own; 
‘Take me by the hand and walk, 

And listen to my baby-talk. 

To Thy Father show my prayer 

(He will look, Thou art so fair), 

And say: “O Father, I, Thy Son, 

Bring the prayer of a little one.” 


And he will smile, that children’s tongue 
Has not changed since Thou wast young! 


THE HOUND OF HEAVEN 


I rL—ED Him, down the nights and down the days; 
I fled Him, down the arches of the years; 

I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways 

Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears 

I hid from Him, and under running laughter. 


Up vistaed hopes I sped; 
And shot, precipitated, 


Adown Titanic glooms of chasmed fears, 


From those strong Feet that followed, followed after. 


30 


Ste 


40 


45 


50 


THE HOUND OF HEAVEN 411 


But with unhurrying chase, 10 
And unperturbed pace, 
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy, 
They beat—and a Voice beat 
More instant than the Feet— 
“All things betray thee, who betrayest Me.” 15 


I pleaded, outlaw-wise, 
By many a hearted casement, curtained red, 
Trellised with intertwining charities; 
(For, though I knew His love Who followed, 
Yet was I sore adread 20 
Lest, having Him, I must have naught beside). 
But, if one little casement parted wide, 
The gust of His approach would clash it to: 
Fear wist not to evade, as Love wist to pursue. 
Across the margent of the world I fled, 25 
And troubled the gold gateways of the stars, 
Smiting for shelter on their clangéd bars; 
Fretted to dulcet jars 
And silvern chatter the pale ports o’ the moon. 
I said to Dawn: Be sudden—to Eve: Be soon; 30 
With thy young skiey blossom heap me over 
From this tremendous Lover— 
Float thy vague veil about me, lest He see! 
I tempted all His servitors, but to find 
My own betrayal in their constancy, 35 
In faith to Him their fickleness to me, 
Their traitorous trueness, and their loyal decit. 
To all swift things for swiftness did I sue; 
Clung to the whistling mane of every wind. 
But whether they swept, smoothly fleet, 40 
The long savannahs of the blue; 
Or whether, Thunder-driven, 
They clanged his chariot thwart a heaven, 
Plashy with flying lightnings round the spurn o’ their feet :— 
Fear wist not to evade as Love wist to pursue. 45 
Still with unhurrying chase, 
And unperturbed pace, 


412 FRANCIS THOMPSON 


Deliberate speed, majestic instancy, 
Came on the following Feet, 
And a Voice above their beat— 
“Naught shelters thee, who wilt not shelter Me.” 


I sought no more that after which I strayed 
In face of man or maid; 
But still within the little children’s eyes 
Seems something, something that replies, 
They at least are for me, surely for me! 
I turned me to them very wistfully ; 
But just as their young eyes grew sudden fair 
With dawning answers there, 
Their angel plucked them from me by the hair. 
“Come then, ye other children, Nature’s—share 
With me” (said I) “your delicate fellowship ; 
Let me greet you lip to lip, 
Let me twine with you caresses, 
Wantoning 
With our Lady-Mother’s vagrant tresses, 
Banqueting 
With her in her wind-walled palace, 
Underneath her azured dais, 
Quaffing, as your taintless way is, 
From a chalice 
Lucent-weeping out of the dayspring.”’ 
So it was done: 
I in their delicate fellowship was one— 
Drew the bolt of Nature’s secrecies. 
I knew all the swift importings 
On the wilful face of skies; 
I knew how the clouds arise 
Spumed of the wild sea-snortings; 
All that’s born or dies 
Rose and drooped with; made them shapers 
Of mine own moods, or wailful or divine; 
With them joyed and was bereaven. 
I was heavy with the even, 
When she lit her glimmering tapers 


50 


55 


60 


65 


70 


12 


80 


85 


THE HOUND OF HEAVEN 413 


Round the day’s dead sanctities. 
I laughed in the morning’s eyes. 


I triumphed and I saddened with all weather, 
Heaven and I wept together, 
And its sweet tears were salt with mortal mine; 90 
Against the red throb of its sunset-heart 
I laid my own to beat, 
And share commingling heat; 
But not by that, by that, was eased my human smart. 
In vain my tears were wet on Heaven’s gray cheek. 95 
For ah! we know not what each other says, 
These things and I; in sound I speak— 
Their sound is but their stir, they speak by silences. 
Nature, poor stepdame, cannot slake my drouth; 
Let her, if she would owe me, 100 
Drop yon blue bosom-veil of sky, and show me 
The breasts o’ her tenderness: 
Never did any milk of hers once bless 
My thirsting mouth. 
Nigh and nigh draws the chase, 105 
With unperturbed pace, 
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy; 
And past those noised Feet 
A voice comes yet more fleet— 


“Lo! naught contents thee, who contents not Me.” 


IIo 


Naked I wait Thy love’s uplifted stroke! 
My harness piece by piece Thou hast hewn from me, 
And smitten me to my knee; 

I am defenceless utterly. 

I slept, methinks, and woke, 115 
And, slowly gazing, find me stripped in sleep. 
In the rash lustihead of my young powers, 

I shook the pillaring hours 
And pulled my life upon me; grimed with smears, 
I stand amid the dust o’ the mounded years— 120 
My mangled youth lies dead beneath the heap. 
My days have crackled and gone up in smoke, 


414 FRANCIS THOMPSON 


Have puffed and burst as sun-starts on a stream. 
Yea, faileth now even dream 
The dreamer, and the lute the lutanist ; 
Even the linked fantasies, in whose blossomy twist 
I swung the earth a trinket at my wrist, 
Are yielding; cords of all too weak account 
For earth with heavy griefs so overplussed. 
Ah, is Thy love indeed 
A weed, albeit an amaranthine weed, 
Suffering no flowers except its own to mount? 
Ah! must— | 
Designer infinite !— 
Ah! must Thou char the wood ere Thou canst limn with it? 
My freshness spent its wavering shower i’ the dust; 
And now my heart is as a broken fount, 
Wherein tear-drippings stagnate, spilt down ever 
From the dank thoughts that shiver 
Upon the sighful branches of my mind. 
Such is; what is to be? 
The pulp so bitter, how shall taste the rind ? 
I dimly guess what Time in mists confounds; 
Yet ever and anon a trumpet sounds 
From the hid battlements of Eternity; 
Those shaken mists a space unsettle, then 
Round the half-glimpsed turrets slowly wash again. 
But not ere him who summoneth 
I first have seen, enwound 
With glooming robes purpureal, cypress-crowner ; 
His name I know, and what his trumpet saith. 
Whether man’s heart or life it be which yields 
Thee harvest, must Thy harvest-fields 
Be dunged with rotten death? 


Now of that long pursuit 
Comes on at hand the bruit; 
That Voice is round me like a bursting sea; 
‘“‘And is the earth so marred, 
Shattered in shard on shard? 
Lo, all things fly thee, for thou fliest Me! 


125 


130 


135 


140 


145 


150 


155 


160 


TO THE DEAD CARDINAL OF WESTMINSTER 


Strange, piteous, futile thing! 
Wherefore should any set thee love apart? 
Seeing none but I makes much of naught” (He said), 
“And human love needs human meriting: 
How hast thou merited— | 
Of all man’s clotted clay the dingiest clot? 
Alack, thou knowest not 
How little worthy of any love thou art! 
Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee, 
Save Me, save only Me? 
All which I took from thee I did but take, 
Not for thy harms, 
But just that thou might’st seek it in My arms. 
All which thy child’s mistake 
Fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home: 
Rise, clasp My hand, and come,” 
Halts by me that footfall: 
Is my gloom, after all, 
Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly ? 
“Ah, fondest blindest, weakest, 
I am He Whom thou seekest ! 
Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest Me.” 


41s 


165 


170 


175 


180 


TO THE DEAD CARDINAL OF WESTMINSTER 


I WILL not perturbate 
Thy Paradisal state 

With praise 

Of thy dead days; 


To the new-heavened say, 
“Spirit, thou wert fine clay”: 
This do, 

Thy praise who knew. 


Therefore my spirit clings 
Heaven’s porter by the wings, 
And holds 

Its gated golds 


} fe) 


416 


FRANCIS THOMPSON 


Apart, with thee to press 
A private business ;—= 
Whence, 


Deign me audience. 


Anchorite, who didst dwell 
With all the world for cell. 
My soul 
Round me doth roll 


A sequestration bare. 
‘Too far alike we were 
Too far 
Dissimilar. 


For its burning fruitage I 
Do climb the tree o’ the sky: 
Do prize 
Some human eyes. 


You smelt the Heaven-blossoms, 
And all the sweet embosoms, 


The dear 


Uranian year. 


Those Eyes my weak gaze shuns, 
Which to the suns are Suns, 
Did 
Not affray your lid. 


The carpet was let down 


(With golden moultings strown) 


For you 
Of the angel’s blue. 


But I, ex-Paradised, 
The shoulder of your Christ 
Find high 
To lean thereby. 


15 


20 


25 


30 


35 


TO THE DEAD CARDINAL OF WESTMINSTER = 417 


So flaps my helpless sail, 45 
Belying with neither gale, 
Of Heaven 
Nor Orcus even. 


Life is a coquetry 
Of Death, which wearies me, 50 
‘Too sure 
Of the amour; 


A tiring-room where I 
Death’s divers garments try, 
Till fit 55 


Some fashion sit. 


It seemeth me too much 
I do rehearse for such 
A mean 
And single scene. 60 


The sandy glass hence bear— 
Antique remembrancer: 
My veins 
Do spare its pains. 


With secret sympathy 65 
My thoughts repeat in me 
Infirm 
The turn o’ the worm 


Beneath my appointed sod; 
The grave is in my blood; 70 
I shake 
The winds that take 


Its grasses by the top; 
The rains thereon that drop 
Perturb 75 
With drip acerb 


418 FRANCIS THOMPSON 


My subtly answering soul; 
The feet across its knoll 
Do jar 
Me from afar. 80 


As sap foretastes the spring; 
As Earth ere blossoming 
Thrills 
With far daffodils, 


And feels her breast turn sweet 85 
With the unconceivéd wheat; 
So doth 
My flesh foreloathe 


The abhorréd spring of Dis, 
With seething presciences 90 
Affirm 


The preparate worm. 


I have no thought that I, 
When at the last I die, 
Shall reach 95 
‘To gain your speech. 


But you, should that be so, 
May very well, I know, 
May well 
‘To me in hell 100 


With recognizing eyes 
Look from your Paradise— 
“God bless 
Thy hopelessness!” 


Call, holy soul, O call 105 
The hosts angelical, 
And say,— 
“See, far away 


TO THE DEAD CARDINAL OF WESTMINSTER 419 


“Lies one I saw on earth; 
One stricken from his birth 110 
With curse 
Of destinate verse. 


“What place doth He ye serve 
For such: sad spirit reserve,— 
Given, 115 
In dark lieu of Heaven, 


“The impitiable Daemon, 
Beauty, to adore and dream on, 
To be 
Perpetually 120 


“Hers, but she never his? 
He reapeth miseries ; 
Foreknows 
His wages woes; 


“He lives detachéd days; 125 
He serveth not for praise; 
For gold 
He is not sold; 


“Deaf is he to world’s tongue; 
He scorneth for his song 130 
The loud 


Shouts of the crowd; 


“He asketh not world’s eyes; 
Not to world’s ears he cries; 
Saith,—‘“These 135 
Shut, if ye please!’ 


“He measureth world’s pleasure, 
World’s ease, as Saints might measure; 
For hire 
Just love entire 140 


420 


FRANCIS THOMPSON 


“‘He asks, not grudging pain; 
And knows his asking vain, 
And cries— 
‘Love! Love!’ and dies, 


“In guerdon of long duty, 
Unowned by Love or Beauty; 
And goes— 

Tell, tell, who knows! 


*fAliens from Heaven’s worth, 
Fine beasts who nose i’ the earth, 
Do there 
Reward prepare. 


‘But are his great desires 
Food but for nether fires? 
Ah me, 

A mystery! 


“‘Can it be his alone, 
To find when all is known, 
‘That what 
He solely sought 


“Is lost, and thereto lost 
All that its seeking cost? 
‘That he 
Must finally, 


“Through sacrificial tears, 
And anchoretic years, 
Tryst 
With the sensualist ?” 


So ask; and if they tell 
The secret terrible, 
Good friend, 


I pray thee send 


145 


150 


155 


160 


165 


170 


A CORYMBUS FOR AUTUMN 


Some high gold embassage  * 
To teach my unripe age. 
Tell! 
Lest my feet walk hell. 


A CORYMBUS FOR AUTUMN 


HEARKEN my chant, ’tis 
As a Bacchante’s, ° 


421 


175 


A grape-spurt, a vine-splash, a tossed tress, flown vaunt ’tis! 


Suffer my singing, 

Gipsy of Seasons, ere thou go winging; 

Ere Winter throws 

His slaking snows 

In thy feasting-flagon’s impurpurate glows! 
The sopped sun—toper as ever drank hard— 
Stares foolish, hazed, 

Rubicund, dazed, 

‘Totty with thine October tankard. 


‘Tanned maiden! with cheeks like apples russet, 
And breast a brown agaric faint-flushing at tip, 


And a mouth too red for the moon to buss it 
But her cheek unvow its vestalship ; 

Thy mists enclip 

Her steel-clear circuit illuminous, 

Until it crust 

Rubiginous 

With the glorious gules of a glowing rust. 


Far other saw we, other indeed, 

‘The crescent moon, in the May-days dead, 
Fly up with its slender white wings spread 
Out of its nest in the sea’s waved mead. 
How are the veins of thee, Autumn, laden? 
Umbered juices, 

And pulped oozes 

Pappy out of the cherry-bruises, 

Froth the veins of thee, wild, wild maiden! 


10 


15 


20 


25 


30 


422 FRANCIS THOMPSON 


With hair that musters 

In globed clusters, 

In tumbling clusters, like swarthy grapes, 
Round thy brow and thine ears o’ershaden ; 
With the burning darkness of eyes like pansies, 
Like velvet pansies 

Wherethrough escapes 

The splendid might ot thy conflagrate fancies; 
With robe gold-tawny that does not veil 

Feet where the red 

Is meshed in the brown, 

Like a rubied sun in a Venice-sail. 


The wassailous heart of the Year is thine! 
His bacchic fingers disentwine 

His coronal 

At thy festival; 

His revelling fingers disentwine 

Leaf, flower, and all, 

And let them fall 

Blossom and all in thy wavering wine. 

The Summer looks out from her brazen tower, 
‘Through the flashing bars of July. 

Waiting thy ripened golden shower; 
Whereof there cometh, with sandals fleet, 
The North-west flying viewlessly, 

With a sword to sheer, and untameable feet, 
And the gorgon-head of the Winter shown 
To stiffen the gazing earth as stone. 


In crystal Heaven’s magic sphere 

Posed in the palm of thy fervid hand, 

Thou seest the enchanted shows appear 
That stain Favonian firmament; 

Richer than ever the Occident 

Gave up to bygone Summer’s wand. 
Day’s dying dragon lies drooping his crest, 
Panting red pants into the West. 


a2 


40 


45 


50 


60 


65 


> 


A CORYMBUS FOR AUTUMN 


Or the butterfly sunset claps its wings 

With flitter alit on the swinging blossom, 
The gusty blossom, that tosses and swings, 

Of the sea with its blown and ruffled bosom; 
Its ruffed bosom wherethrough the wind sings 
Till the crisped petals are loosened and strown 
Overblown, on the sand; 

Shed, curling as dead 

Rose-leaves curl, on the flecked strand. 


Or higher, holier, saintlier when, as now, 
All Nature sacerdotal seems, and thou. 
The calm hour strikes on yon golden gong, 
In tones of floating and mellow light 

A pleading summons to even-song: 

See how there 

The cowled Night 

Kneels on the Eastern sanctuary-stair. 
What is this feel of incense everywhere? 
Clings it round folds of the blanch-amiced clouds, 
Upwafted by the solemn thurifer, 

The mighty Spirit unknown, 


423 


70 


75 


80 


85 


That swingeth the slow earth before the embannered Throne? 


Or is’t the Season under all these shrouds 

Of light, and sense, and silence, makes her know 
A presence everywhere, 

An inarticulate prayer, 

A hand on the soothed tresses of the air? 

But there is one hour scant 

Of this Titanian, primal liturgy; 

As there is but one hour for me and thee, 
Autumn, for thee and thine hierophant, 

Of this grave-ending chant. 

Round the earth still and stark 

Heaven’s death-lights kindle, yellow spark by spark, 
Beneath the dreadful catafalque of the dark. 


And I had ended there: 
But a great wind blew all the stars to flare, 


90 


95 


100 


424 FRANCIS THOMPSON 


And cried, ‘“‘I sweep the path before the moon! 

Tarry ye now the coming of the moon, 105 
For she is coming soon”’ ; 

Then died before the coming of the moon. 

And she came forth upon the trepidant air, 

In vesture unimagined-fair, 

Woven as woof of flag-lilies; 110 
And curdled as of flag-lilies 

‘The vapor at the feet of her, 

And a haze about her tinged in fainter wise; 

As if she had trodden the stars in press, 

Till the gold wine spurted over her dress, 115 
‘Till the gold wine gushed out round her feet; 

Spouted over her stained wear, 

And bubbled in golden froth at her feet, 


And hung like a whirlpool’s mist round her. 


Still, mighty Season, do I see’t, 120 
Thy sway is still majestical! 

Thou hold’st of God, by title sure, 

‘Thine indefeasible investiture, 

And that right round thy locks are native to; 

This huge terrene thy ball. 125 


THE DREAD OF HEIGHT 


If ye were blind, ye should have no sin: but now ye say: We see: 
your sin remaineth. JOHN ix. 41. 


Not the Circean wine 

Most perilous is for pain: 

Grapes of the heavens’ star-loaden vine, 

Whereto the lofty-placed 

Thoughts of fair souls attain, 5 
Tempt with a more retributive delight, 

And do disrelish all life’s sober taste. 

Tis to-have drunk too well 

The drink that is divine, 

Maketh the kind earth waste, 10 
And breath intolerable. 


THE DREAD OF HEIGHT 
Ah me! 


How shall my mouth content it with mortality? 

Lo, secret music, sweetest music, 

From distances of distance drifting its lone flight, 
Down the arcane where Night would perish in night, 
Like a god’s loosened locks slips undulously: 

Music that is too grievous of the height 

For safe and low delight, 

Too infinite 

For bounded hearts which yet would girth the sea! 


So let it be, 


Though sweet be great, and though my heart be small: 


So let it be, 

O music, music, though you wake in me 
No joy, no joy at all; 

Although you only wake 

Uttermost sadness, measure of delight, 
Which else I could not credit to the height, 
Did I not know, 

That ill is statured to its opposite ; 

Did I not know, 

And even of sadness so, 

Of utter sadness, make 

Of extreme sad a rod to mete 

The incredible excess of unsensed sweet, 
And mystic wall of strange felicity. 

So let it be, 

Though sweet be great, and though my heart be small, 
And bitter meat 

‘The food of gods for men to eat; 

Yea, John ate daintier, and did tread 

Less ways of heat, 

Than whom to their wind-carpeted 

High banquet-hall, 

And golden love-feasts, the fair stars entreat. 


But ah! withal, 
Some hold, some stay, 


O difficult Joy, I pray, 


425 


15 


20 


25 


30 


Sh) 


40 


45 


FRANCIS THOMPSON 


Some arms of thine, 

Not only, only arms of mine! 

Lest like a weary girl I fall 

From clasping love so high, 

And lacking thus thine arms, then may 
Most hapless I 

Turn utterly to love of basest rate; 

For low they fall whose fall is from the sky. 
Yea, who me shall secure 

But I, of height grown desperate, 

Surcease my wing, and my lost fate 

Be dashed from pure 

To broken writhings in the shameful slime: 
Lower than man, for I dreamed higher, 
Thrust down, by how much I aspire, 

And damned with drink of immortality ? 
For such things be, 

Yea, and the lowest reach of reeky Hell 

Is but made possible 

By foreta’en breath of Heaven’s austerest clime. 


These tidings from the vast to bring 

Needeth not doctor nor divine, 

Too well, too well 

My flesh doth know the heart-perturbing thing; 
That dread theology alone 

Is mine, 

Most native and my own; 

And ever with victorious toil 

When I have made 

Of the deific peaks dim escalade, 

My soul with anguish and recoil 

Doth like a city in an earthquake rock, 

As at my feet the abyss is cloven then, 

With deeper menace than for other men, 

Of my potential cousinship with mire; 

That all my conugered skies do grow a hollow mock, 
My fearful powers retire, 


50 


ye, 


60 


65 


70 


75 


80 


85 


THE KINGS 427 


No longer strong, 

Reversing the shook banners of their song. 

Ah, for a heart less native to high Heaven, 

A hooded eye, for jesses and restraint, 90 
Or for a will accipitrine to pursue !— 

The veil of tutelar flesh to simple livers given, 

Or those brave-fledging fervors of the Saint, 

Whose heavenly falcon-craft doth never taint, 

Nor they in sickest time their ample virtue mew. 95 


ROUSE UNO GE Ni GUTINEREY? 


1861—1920 


Louise Imogen Guiney was born in Boston in 1861. She was edu- 
cated for the most part at home, although for a time she attended 
the Elmhurst Academy at Providence, Rhode Island. After 1901 
she lived in England. 

Miss Guiney was essentially a poet. In spite of the fact that at 
times her verse attains no great height of imagery, there is about it 
a sensitivity to spiritual values that renders it noteworthy if not dis- 
tinguished. Moreover, the responsiveness of her ear to the rhythms 
inherent in her ideas and her ability to give them form will maintain 
for her a place in the literature long after many of more robust 
talent will have been forgotten. 


THE KINGS 


A MAN said unto his Angel: 
“My spirits are fallen low, 
And I cannot carry this battle: 
O brother! where might I go? 


“The terrible Kings are on me 5 
With spears that are deadly bright; 

Against me so from the cradle 

Do fate and my fathers fight.” 


1The selections from the work of Miss Guiney are reprinted with the permission 
of, and by arrangement with, the Houghton Mifflin Company, owners of the 


copyright. 


428 


LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY 


Then said to the man his Angel: 
“Thou wavering witless soul, 
Back to the ranks! What matter 
‘To win or to lose the whole, 


“As judged by the little judges 
Who hearken not well, nor see? 
Not thus, by the outer issue, 
The Wise shall interpret thee. 


“Thy will is the sovereign measure 
And only event of things: 

The puniest heart, defying 

Were stronger than all these Kings. 


‘Though out of the past they gather, 


Mind’s Doubt, and Bodily Pain, 
And pallid Thirst of the Spirit 
That is kin to the other twain, 


“And Grief, in a cloud of banners, 
And ringletted Vain Desires, 

And Vice, with the spoils upon him 
Of thee and thy beaten sires,— 


“While Kings of eternal evil 
Yet darken the hills about, 
‘Thy part is with broken saber 
To rise on the last redoubt; 


“To fear not sensible failure, 
Nor covet the game at all, 
But fighting, fighting, fighting, 
Die, driven against the wall.” 


10 


15 


20 


25 


30 


3a 


FIVE CAROLS FOR CHRISTMASTIDE 429 


FIVE CAROLS FOR CHRISTMASTIDE 
I 


THE Ox he openeth wide the Doore, 
And from the Snowe he calls her inne, 
And he hath seen her Smile therefor, 
Our Ladye without Sinne. 
Now soone from Sleep 5 
A starre shall leap, 
And soone arrive both King and Hinde: 
Amen, Amen: 


But O, the Place co’d I but finde! 


The Ox hath hush’d his voyce and bent 10 
‘Trewe eyes of Pitty ore the Mow, 
And on his lovelie Neck, forspent, 
The Blessed layes her Browe. 
Around her feet 
Full Warme and Sweete 15 
His bowerie Breath doth meeklie dwell: 
Amen, Amen: 
But sore am I with Vaine Travel! 


The Ox is host in Judah stall 

And Host of more than onelie one, 20 

For close she gathereth withal 

Our Lorde her littel Sonne. 

Glad Hinde and King 

Their Gyfte may bring, 

But wo’d to-night my Teares were there, 25 
Amen, Amen: 

Between her Bosom and His hayre! 


II 


VINES branching stilly 
Shade the open door, 

In the house of Zion’s Lily, 
Cleanly and poor. 


430 


LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY 


Oh, brighter than wild laurel 
The Babe bounds in her hand, 
The King, who for apparel 
Hath but a swaddling-band, 
And sees her heavenlier smiling than stars in 
His command! 


Soon, mystic changes 
Part Him from her breast, 
Yet there awhile He ranges 
Gardens of rest: 
Yea, she the first to ponder 
Our ransom and recall, 
Awhile may rock Him under 
Her young curls’ fall 
Against that only sinless love-loyal heart of all. 


What shall inure Him 

Unto the deadly dream, 

When the Tetrarch shall abjure Him, 

The thief blaspheme, 

And scribe and soldier jostle 

About the shameful tree, 

And even an Apostle 

Demand to touch and see ?— 

But she hath kissed her Flower where the 

Wounds are to be. 


Ill 


THREE without slumber ride from afar, 
Fain of the roads where palaces are; 

All by a shed as they ride in a row, 
“Here!” is the cry of their vanishing Star. 


First doth a greybeard, glittering fine, 

Look on Messiah in slant moonshine: 

“This have I bought for Thee!’ Vainly: for lo, 
Shut like a fern is the young hand divine. 


10 


15 


20 


25 


FIVE CAROLS FOR CHRISTMASTIDE 


Next doth a Magian, mantled and tall, 

Bow to the Ruler that reigns from a stall: 

“This have I sought for Thee.’ ‘Though it be rare, 
Loath little fingers are letting it fall. 


Last doth a stripling, bare in his pride, 

Kneel by the Lover as if to abide: 

“This have I wrought for Thee!’ Answer him there 
Laugh of a Child, and His arms opened wide. 


IV 


Was a Soule from farre away 
Stood wistful in the Hay, 
And of the Babe a-sleeping hadde a sight: 
Neither reck’d hee any more 
Men behind him and before, 
Nor a thousand busie Winges, flitting light: 
But in middle of the night 
This few-worded wight 
(Yule! Yule!) 
Bespake Our Ladye bright: 


“Fill mee, ere my corage faints, 
With the lore of all the Saints: 
Harte to harte against my Brother let mee be. 
By the Fountaines that are His 
I wo’d slumber where Hee is: 
Prithee, Mother, give the other Brest to mee!” 
The Soule that none co’d see 
She hath taken on her knee: 
(Yule! Yule!) 
Sing prayse to Our Ladye. 


V 


The Ox and the Ass, 

Tell aloud of them: 

Sing their pleasure as it was 
In Bethlehem. 


SriLtu as blowing rose, sudden as a sword, 


Maidenly the Maiden bare Jesu Christ the Lord; 


431 


Io 


15 


IO 


I5 


20 


432 LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY 


Yet for very lowlihood, such a Guest to greet, 
Goeth in a little swoon while kissing of His feet. 


Mary, drifted snow on the earthen floor, 5 
Joseph, fallen wondrous weak now he would adore,— 

(Oh, the surging might of love! Oh, the drowning bliss!) 
Both are rapt to Heaven and lose their human Heaven that is. 


From the Newly Born trails a lonely cry. 

With a mind to heed, the Ox turns a glowing eye; 10 
In the empty byre the Ass thinks her heart to blame: 

Up for comforting of God the beasts of burden came, 


Softly to inquire, thrusting as for cheer 

There between the tender hands, furry faces dear. 

Blessing on the honest coats! tawny coat and gray 15 
Friended Our Delight so well when warmth had strayed away. 


Crooks are on the sill; scepters sail the wave; 

All the hopes of all the years are thronging to the Cave. 

Mother slept not long, nor long Father’s sense was dim, 

But another twain the while stood parent-wise to Him. 20 


The Ox and the Ass, 
Be you glad for them 
Such a moment came to pass 


In Bethlehem! 


THE WILD RIDE 


I HEAR in my heart, I hear in its ominous pulses 
All day, on the road, the hoofs of invisible horses, 
All night, from their stalls, the importunate pawing and neighing. 


Let cowards and laggards fall back! but alert to the saddle 
Weather-worn and abreast, go men of our galloping iegion, 5 
With a stirrup-cup 2ach to the lily of women that loves him. 


SAINT FRANCIS ENDETH HIS SERMON 433 


The trail is through dolor and dread, over crags and morasses; 

There are shapes by the way, there are things that appal or entice 
is. 

What odds? We are Knights of the Grail, we are vowed to the 
riding. 


Thought’s self is a vanishing wing, and joy is a cobweb, 10 
And friendship a flower in the dust, and glory a sunbeam: 
Not here is our prize, nor, alas! after these our pursuing. 


A dipping of plumes, a tear, a shake of the bridle, 
A passing salute to this world and her pitiful beauty: 
We hurry with never a word in the track of our fathers. 15 


(I hear in my heart, I hear in its ominous pulses 
All day, on the road, the hoofs of invisible horses, 
All night, from their stalls, the importunate pawing and neighing.) 


We spur to a land of no name, out-racing the storm-wind ; 
We leap to the infinite dark like sparks from an anvil. 20 
Thou leadest, O God! All’s well with Thy troopers that follow. 


SAINT FRANCIS ENDETH HIS SERMON 


‘““AND now, my clerks who go in fur or feather 

Or brighter scales, I bless you all. Be true 

To your true Lover and Avenger, whether 

By land or sea ye die the death undue. 

Then proffer man your pardon; and together 5 
Track him to Heaven, and see his heart made new. 


“From long ago one hope hath in me thriven, 

Your hope, mysterious as the scented May: 

Not to Himself your titles God hath given 

In vain, nor only for our mortal day. 10 
O doves! how from The Dove shall ye be driven? 

O darling lambs! ye with The Lamb shall play.”’ 


434 ERNEST CHRISTOPHER DOWSON 


SUMMUM BONUM 


WAITING on Him who knows us and our need, 

Most need have we to dare not, nor desire, 

But as He giveth, softly to suspire 

Against His gift with no inglorious greed, 

For this is joy, though still our joys recede; 5 
And, as in octaves of a noble lyre. 

To move our minds with His, and clearer, higher, 

Sound forth our fate: for this is strength indeed. 


Thanks to His love let earth and man dispense 

In smoke of worship when the heart is stillest, 10 
A praying more than prayer: “Great good have I, 

Till it be greater good to. lay it by; 

Nor can I lose peace, power, permanence, 

For these smile on me from the thing Thou willest!”’ 


E.RNVE ST): CH RUS DOPH ERD OWw so 
1867——1900 


Ernest Dowson, convert and poet, was born in Kent in 1867. 
Much of his early life was spent in Italy and France. His education 
was irregular and incomplete, most of it being obtained through more 
or less desultory reading, although he studied for a time at Queen’s 
College, Oxford. At the age of twenty, however, he left Oxford, 
and spent the remainder of his short life either in London or in 
France. 

About the time he left Oxford he was received into the Catholic 
Church, one of the first of those whose conversion to the Faith dur- 
ing the late eighties and early nineties forms a curious comment 
upon that strangely hectic period. 

Dowson’s verse, naturally, is the product of his temperament and 
the elements of his training. At times decadent to a degree almost 
incomprehensible in the light of his other moments, it rises just as 
frequently to levels among the highest reaches and is there sustained 
in perfect harmonies. 


*Selections from the work of Ernest Christopher Dowson are used by 
permission of Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc. 


NUNS OF THE PERPETUAL ADORATION 


NUNS OF THE PERPETUAL ADORATION 


CaM, sad, secure; behind high convent walls, 

‘These watch the sacred lamp, these watch and pray: 
And it is one with them when evening falls, 

And one with them the cold return of day. 


These heed not time; their nights and days they make 
Into a long, returning rosary, 

Whereon their lives are threaded for Christ’s sake: 
Meekness and vigilance and chastity. 


A vowed patrol, in silent companies, 
Life-long they keep before the living Christ: 
In the dim church, their prayers and penances 
Are fragrant incense to the Sacrificed. 


Outside, the world is wild and passionate; 

Man’s weary laughter and his sick despair 
Entreat at their impenetrable gate: 

‘They heed no voices in their dream of prayer. 


‘They saw the glory of the world displayed ; 
They saw the bitter of it, and the sweet; 

They knew the roses of the world should fade, 
And be trod under by the hurrying feet. 


Therefore they rather put away desire, 
And crossed their hands and came to sanctuary; 
And veiled their heads and put on coarse attire: 
Because their comeliness was vanity. 


And there they rest; they have serene insight 
Of the illuminating dawn to be: ! 

Mary’s sweet Star dispels for them the night, 
The proper darkness of humanity. 


Calm, sad, secure; with faces worn and mild: 
Surely their choice of vigil is the best? 

Yea! for our roses fade, the world is wild; 
But there, beside the altar, there, is rest. 


435 


1) 


15 


20 


25 


30 


436 


THROUGH what long heaviness, assayed in what strange fire, 


ERNEST CHRISTOPHER DOWSON 


EXTREME UNCTION 


Upon the eyes, the lips, the feet, 
On all the passages of sense, 

The atoning oil is spread with sweet 
Renewal of lost innocence. 


The feet, that lately ran so fast 

To meet desire, are soothly sealed ; 
The eyes, that were so often cast 

On vanity, are touched and healed. 


From troublous sights and sounds set free; 
In such a twilight hour of breath, 

Shall one retrace his life, or see, 
Through shadows, the true face of death? 


Vials of mercy! Sacring oils! 
I know not where nor when I come, 
Nor through what wanderings and toils, 
To crave of you Viaticum. 


Yet, when the walls of flesh grow weak, 
In such an hour, it well may be, 

Through mist and darkness, light will break, 
And each anointed sense will see. 


CARTHUSIANS 


10 


15 


20 


Have these white monks been brought into the way of peace, 
Despising the world’s wisdom and the world’s desire, 


Which from the body of this death bring no release? 


Within their austere walls no voices penetrate ; 
A sacred silence only, as of death, obtains; 
Nothing finds entry here of loud or passionate; 
This quiet is the exceeding profit of their pains. 


CARTHUSIANS | 437 


/ 


From many lands they came, in divers fiery ways; 


Each knew at last the vanity of earthly joys; 10 
And one was crowned with thorns, and one was crowned with 
bays, 


And each was tired at last of the world’s foolish noise. 


It was not theirs with Dominic to preach God’s holy wrath, 
They were too stern to bear sweet Francis’ gentle sway: 

Theirs was a higher calling and a steeper path, 15 
To dwell alone with Christ, to meditate and pray. 


A cloistered company, they are companionless, 
None knoweth here the secret of his brother’s heart: 
They are but come together for more loneliness, 
Whose bond is solitude and silence all their part. 20 


O beatific life! Who is there shall gainsay, 

Your great refusal’s victory, your little loss, 
Deserting vanity for the more perfect way, 

‘The sweeter service of the most dolorous Cross. 


Ye shall prevail at last! Surely ye shall prevail! 25 
Your silence and austerity shall win at last: 

Desire and mirth, the world’s ephemeral lights shall fail, 
‘The sweet star of your queen is never overcast. 


We fling up flowers and laugh, we laugh across the wine; 

With wine we dull our souls and careful strains of art; 30 
Our cups are polished skulls round which the roses twine; 

None dares to look at Death who leers and lurks apart. 


Move on, white company, whom that has not sufficed! 
Our viols cease, our wine is death, our roses fail: 

Pray for our heedlessness, O dwellers with the Christ! 35 
Though the world fall apart, surely ye shali prevail. 


438 ERNEST CHRISTOPHER DOWSON 


BRETON AFTERNOON 


Here, where the breath of the scented-gorse floats through the 
sun-stained air, 

One a steep hill-side, on a grassy ledge, I have lain hours long 
and heard 

Only the faint breeze pass in a whisper like a prayer, 

And the river ripple by and the distant call of a bird. 


On the lone hill-side, in the gold sunshine, I will hush me and 
repose, 5 

And the world fades into a dream and a spell is cast on me; 

And what was all the strife about, for the myrtle or the rose, 

And why have I wept for a white girl’s paleness passing ivory! 


Out of the tumult of angry tongues, in a land alone, apart, 

In a perfumed dream-land set betwixt the bounds of life and 
death, 10 

Here will I lie while the clouds fly by and delve an hole where my 
heart 

May sleep down with the gorse above and red, red earth beneath. 


Sleep and be quiet for an afternoon, till the rose-white angelus 

Softly steals my way from the village under the hill: 

Mother of God, O Misericord, look down in pity on us, 15 

‘The weak and blind who stand in our light and wreak ourselves 
such ill. 


IMPENITENTIA ULTIMA 


BEForE my light goes out for ever if God should give me a choice 
of graces, 

I would not reck of length of days, nor crave for things to be; 

But cry: ‘One day of the great lost days, one face of all the faces, 

Grant me to see and touch once more and nothing more to see. 


i 


BENEDICTIO DOMINI 439 


‘For, Lord, I was free of all Thy flowers, but I chose the world’s 
sad roses, 
And that is why my feet are torn and mine eyes are blind with 
sweat, 
But at Thy terrible judgment-seat, when this my tired life closes 
I am ready to reap whereof I sowed, and pay my righteous debt. 


“But once before the sand is run and the silver thread is broken, 
Give me a grace and cast aside the veil of dolorous years, IO 
Grant me one hour of all mine hours, and let me see for a token 
Her pure and pitiful eyes shine out, and bathe her feet with 
tears.” 


Her pitiful hands should calm, and her hair stream down and 
blind me, 
Out of the sight of night, and out of the reach of fear, 
And her eyes should be my light whilst the sun went out behind 
me, 15 
And the viols in her voice be the last sound in mine ear. 


Before the ruining waters fall and my life be carried under, 
And Thine anger cleave me through as a child cuts down a 


flower, 
I will praise Thee, Lord, in Hell, while my limbs are racked 
asunder, 
For the last sad sight of her face and the little grace of an 
hour. 20 


BENEDICTIO DOMINI 


WirnHovut, the sullen noises of the street! 
The voice of London, inarticulate, 

Hoarse and blaspheming, surges in to meet 
The silent blessing of the Immaculate. 


Dark is the church, and dim the worshippers, 5 
Hushed with bowed heads as though by some old spell, 
While through the incense-laden air there stirs 
The admonition of a silver bell. 


44d LIONEL JOHNSON 


Dark is the church, save where the altar stands, 

Dressed like a bride, illustrious with light, 10 
Where one old priest exalts with tremulous hands 

The one true solace of man’s fallen plight. 


Strange silence here: without, the sounding street 
Heralds the world’s swift passage to the fire: 

O Benediction, perfect and complete! 15 
When shall men cease to suffer and desire? 


LIONEL JOHNSON'! 
1867—1902 


Lionel Johnson, journalist, critic, and poet, was born in Kent in 
1867. He went first to school at Winchester and eventually entered 
New College, Oxford. | 

Soon after coming of age he became a convert to the Catholic 
faith. 

The remainder of his short life was spent in London as a journ- 
alist. He had, however, begun to write verse at an early age, pub- 
lishing his first work in 1883. His first recognition came in 1894 
with the appearance of his Art of Thomas Hardy. ‘Iwo slender vol- 
umes of verse followed, Poems in 1895, and Ireland, with Other 
Poems in 1897. He died in 1902. 

There is about his poetry an unworldliness, a mystical charm, and 
a musical quality that have won for him a permanent place among 
the minor poets. | 


OUR LADY OF THE MAY 


O FLOWER of flowers, our Lady of the May! 
Thou gavest us the World’s one Light of Light: 
Under the stars, amid the snows, He lay; 
While Angels, through the Galilean night 
Sang glory and sang peace: 5 
Nor doth their singing cease, 


*Selections from the work of Lionel Johnson are reprinted by permis- 
sion of, and arrangement with, Elkin Mathews, Ltd., owners of the copy- 
right. 


OUR LADY OF THE MAY 441 


For thou their Queen and He their King sit crowned 
Above the stars, above the bitter snows; 
They chaunt to thee the Lily, Him the Rose 

With white Saints kneeling round. TO 
Gone is cold night: thine now are spring and day: 
O Flower of flowers, our Lady of the May! 


O Flower of flowers, our Lady of the May! 
Thou gavest us the blessed Christmas mirth: 
And now, not snows, but blossoms, light thy way; 15 
We give thee the fresh flower-time of the earth. 
These early flowers we bring, 
Are angels of the spring, 
Spirits of gracious rain and light and dew. 
Nothing so like to thee the whole earth yields, 20 
As these pure children of her vales and fields, 
Bright beneath skies of blue. 
Hail, Holy Queen! their fragrant breathings say: 
O Flower of flowers, our Lady of the May! 


O Flower of flowers, our Lady of the May! 25 
Breathe from God’s garden of eternal flowers 
Blessing, when we thy little children pray: 
Let thy soul’s grace steal gently over ours. 
Send on us dew and rain, 
‘That we may bloom again, 30 
Nor wither in the dry and parching dust. 
Lift up our hearts, till with adoring eyes, 
O Morning Star! we hail thee in the skies, 
Star of our hope and trust! 
Sweet Star, sweet Flower, there bid thy beauty stay: 35 
O Flower of flowers, our Lady of the May! 


O Flower of flowers, our Lady of the May! 
Thou leftest lilies rising from thy tomb: 
They shone in stately and serene array, 
Immaculate amid death’s house of gloom. 40 
Ah, let thy graces be 
Sown in our dark heart! We 


442 


LIONEL JOHNSON 


Would make our hearts gardens for thy dear care; 

Watered from wells of Paradise, and sweet 

With balm winds flowing from the Mercy Seat, 
And full of heavenly air: 

While music ever in thy praise should play, 

O Flower of flowers, our Lady of the May! 


O Flower of flowers, our Lady of the May! 
Not only for ourselves we plead, God’s Flower! 
Look on thy blinded children, who still stray, 
Lost in this pleasant land, thy chosen Dower! 
Send us a perfect spring: 
Let faith arise and sing, 
And England from her long, cold winter wake. 
Mother of Mercy! turn upon her need 
‘Thine eyes of mercy: be their spring indeed: 
So shall thine Angels make 
A starrier music, than our hearts can say, 
O Flower of flowers, our Lady of the May! 


TO MORFYDD DEAD 
I 


WoubLDb, to the glory of thine eyes might change, 
Impassionate strange surprise, 
Lightning, that in darkness flies! 


Oh, fairer yet! would, an unbending sheaf 
Of steel my grief might end, 
And to thine my freed soul send! 


Would, I might meet swift death from flight of spears! 


I waste in tears the night, 


Morfydd, O my lost delight! 


I would, that on the fiercest field of blood, 
Morfydd! I stood, no shield 
Sheltering my breast unsteeled ! 


45 


50 


55 


60 


10 


TO MORFYDD DEAD 


I would, that swords of death rang round my way, 
This weary day, and found 
Home within the heart, thine crowned! 


I would, that my freed soul within the wind 
Might fly, and find, and win 
Thine, and joy of death begin! 


I would, that with eternal wings we went, 
All sorrow spent, all things 
Ended, save the song love sings! 


Sweet spears and swords, who send his due to death! 
My sad heart saith not you 
Nay: ah, swift then, pierce it through! 


IT 


Morfydd at midnight 
Met the Nameless Ones: 
Now she wanders on the winds. 
White and lone. 
I would give the light 
Of eternal suns, 
To be with her on the winds, 
No more lone. 


Oh, wild sea of air! 
Oh, night’s vast sweet noon! 
We would wander through the night, 
Star and Star. 
Nay! but she, most fair! 
Sun to me and moon: 
I the vassal of her flight, 
Far and far. 


443 


15 


20 


25 


30 


35 


40 


444 


LIONEL JOHNSON 


Morfydd at midnight 
Met the Nameless Ones: 
Now she wanders on the winds, 
White and lone. 
Take from me the light, 
God! of all Thy suns: 
Give me her, who on the winds 
Wanders lone! 


THE DARKNESS 


Master of spirits! hear me: King of souls! 

I kneel before ‘Thine altar, the long night, 
Besieging Thee with penetrable prayers: 

And all I ask, light from the Face of God. 
Thy darkness Thou hast given me enough, 

The dark clouds of Thine angry majesty: 

Now give me light! I cannot always walk 
Surely beneath the full and starless night. 
Lighten me, fallen down, I know not where, 
Save, to the shadows and the fear of death. 

Thy Saints in light see light, and sing for joy: 
Safe from the dark, safe from the dark and cold. 
But from my dark comes only doubt of light: 
Disloyalty, that trembles to despair. 

Now bring me out of night, and with the sun 
Clothe me, and crown me with Thy seven stars, 
Thy spirits in the hollow of Thine hand. 

Thou from the still throne of Thy tabernacle 
Wilt come to me in glory, O Lord God! 
Thou wilt, I doubt Thee not: I worship Thee 
Before Thine holy altar, the long night. 

Else have I nothing in the world, but death: 
Thine hounding winds rush by me day and night, 
‘Thy seas roar in mine ears: I have no rest, 

No peace, but am afflicted constantly, 

Driven from wilderness to wilderness. 

And yet Thou hast a perfect house of light, 
Above the four great winds, an house of peace: 


45 


10 


15 


20 


25 


CHRISTMAS 


Its beauty of the crystal and the dew, 

Guard Angels and Archangels, in their hands 
The blade of a sword shaken. ‘Thither bring 
Thy servant: when the black night falls on me, 
With bitter voices tempting in the gloom, 

Send out Thine armies, flaming ministers, 
And shine upon the night: for what I would, 

I cannot, save these help me. O Lord God! 
Now, when my prayers upon Thine altar lie, 
When Thy dark anger is too hard for me: 
Through vision of Thyself, through flying fire, 
Have mercy, and give light, and stablish me! 


CHRISTMAS 


I 
Sinc Bethlehem! Sing Bethlehem! 


You daughters of Jerusalem! 
Keep sorrow for Gethsemani, 
And mourning for Mount Calvary! 


Why are your lids and lashes wet? 
Here is no darkling Olivet. 

Sing Bethlehem! Sing Bethlehem! 
You daughters of Jerusalem! 


How should we sing of Bethlehem, 
We, daughters of Jerusalem? 
We are the people of the Jews: 


Our balms would soothe Him not, but bruise. 


Ah, Calvary! ah, Calvary! 

We wretched women cry to thee: 
We daughters of Jerusalem; 

And enemies of Bethlehem. 


With faces cast upon the dust, 

We weep those things, which do we must: 
Our tears embitter Calvary, 

And water thee, Gethsemani! 


445 


30 


35 


40 


IO 


15 


20 


446 


LIONEL JOHNSON 


Nay, Bethlehem! Sing Bethlehem! 
Poor daughters of Jerusalem ! 
You know not, what you do: but He 
Will pardon you on Calvary. 


II 


THE last week before Christmas, 
Hoar lies the orchard grass 
From pear tree unto apple tree, 
Where feet well shod must pass: 
By dripping trees a woodman’s fire 
Burns the last leaves, alas! 
And the blue smoke drifts through the air, 
Above the branches bare. 


‘The last week before Christmas, 
The last before the snow: 
Stand steaming cattle by the hedge, 
With meek heads bending low: 
The chattering rivulet flows fast, 
While there is time to flow: 
And the blue smoke drifts through the air, 
Above the branches bare. 


The last week before Christmas, 
Red berries few to find: 

The brown fir cones upon the bough 
Move to a gentle wind: 

Down the gray sky go chilly gleams, 
Bringing the sun to mind: 

And the blue smoke drifts through the air, 
Above the branches bare. 


Oh! last week before Christmas, 
Second before New Year: 
Heap heart of oak upon the hearth, 
And keep you now good cheer: 
With Christus natus for an health, 
And Christi Mater dear: 
Then blue’s the sky, and bright’s the air, 
Above the blossoms fair! 


Io 


15 


20 


25 


30 


Tres. 


Gabriel. 


Michael. 


Uriel. 


Raphael. 


Omnes. 


CHRISTMAS 


Ii] 


Halt to our brother Gabriel! 
Now we, thy brothers, Michael, 
And Raphael, 
And Uriel, 


Hail thee, come home from Israel! 


I saw among the lilies dwell 

Mary our Queen, who pleaseth well 

The spirit of our God. All hail, 

Mary our Queen! Sing, thou in mail, 
Lord Michael! Sing, Uriel; thou, 
Clothed with the sun upon thy brow! 
And sing thou Hail! whose pilgrims now 
Shall climb the steep ways out of Hell, 
Joy of poor pilgrims, Raphael! 


I, Captain of the Lord God’s host, 
Give glory to the Holy Ghost, 
And give to Mary, loved of Him! 


I, Chief of the white Cherubim, 

Give thanks to Mary: and to Him, 
That Holy Child, Who shall be born, 
King Jesus Christ, on Christmas morn. 


I, Prince of burning Seraphim, 
Give praise, give praise, to Mary Queen, 


With whom the Grace of God hath been. 


Now play through Heaven the Angel bell: 


Make music of the Angelus! 
The King is come to Israel: 
The Queen of Heaven is found for us. 


447 


IO 


15 


20 


25 


448 


LIONEL JOHNSON 


IV 
Curist hath Christ’s Mother 


Dicamus! Canamus! 
Borne, our dear Brother, 

Canamus! Dicamus! 
In the stall of Bethlehem. 


Then leave we all Jerusalem, 


To kiss the King of Bethlehem: 


Cui vocibus gaudentibus 
Dicamus! Canamus! 
Gloriam. 


Come from the city! 
Dicamus! Canamus! 

God hath had pity 
Canamus! Dicamus 

On His people Israel. 

And pity will He have as well 

On Gentiles beyond Israel: 
Nunc vocibus gaudentibus 

Dicamus! Canamus! 
Gloriam. 


Laud in the highest! 
Dicamus! Canamus! 

Now, Death, thou diest: 
Canamus! Dicamus! 

Lo! God goeth to His grave 


Us dead and dying men to save, 
And bring the captives from the grave: 


Quo vocibus gaudentibus 
Dicamus! Canamus! 
Gloriam. 


Snows the land cover! 
Dicamus! Canamus! 

Lo! comes our Lover: 
Canamus! Dicamus! 


10 


15 


20 


25 


30 


CHRISTMAS 


Comes a glory, comes a light: 
Gold on snow and in the height: 
Glory from the Light of Light! 
Quin vocibus gaudentibus 
Dicamus! Canamus! 
Gloriam. 


Praise to the Father! 
Dicamus! Canamus! 
Now will He gather 
Canamus! Dicamus! 
Us His helpless little ones 
From endless Death’s dominions: 
Us, God the Father’s little ones. 
Cui vocibus gaudentibus, 
Dicamus! Canamus! 
Gloriam. 


Praise to Son Jesus! 
Dicamus! Canamus! 

Him, whose Cross frees us 
Canamus! Dicamus! 

From the cruel hand of sin. 

Now first to Him our songs begin, 


Since now our hearts have donne with sin. 


Sic vocibus gaudentibus 
Dicamus! Canamus! 
Gloriam. 


Praise Mary Mother! 
Dicamus! Canamus! 
Mary, none other, 
Canamus! Dicamus! 
Welcome might the Holy Ghost, 
Because her soul was pure the most: 
Now praise be to the Holy Ghost! 
Cui vocibus gaudentibus 
Dicamus! Canamus! 
Gloriam. 


449 
35 


40 


45 


50 


ap 


60 


65 


70 


450 


LIONEL JOHNSON 


Praise, praise, and praises, 
Dicamus! Canamus! 

Earth with Heaven raises 
Canamus! Dicamus! 

To the glorious Trinity! 

Sons of new morning, mingle we 

With morning stars our melody: 
Et vocibus gaudentibus 

Dicamus! Canamus! 
Gloriam. 


BEFORE THE CLOISTER 


Sorrow, O sister Sorrow, O mine own! 
Whither away hast flown? 

Without thee, fiery is the flowery earth, 
A flaming dance of mirth, 

A marvel of wild music: I grow frail 
Amid the perfumed gale, 

The rushing of desires to meet delights. 
Sweet Queen of holy nights, 

Lady of gray, wise hours! come back to me: 
Voice of the sighing sea, 

Voice of the ancient wind, infinite voice! 
Thine austere chaunts rejoice 

Mine heart, thine anthems cool me: I grow strong, 
Drinking thy bitter song, 

Rich with true tears and medicinal dews, 
O thou Uranian Muse! 

Come, vestal Lady! in my vain heart light 
‘Thy flame, divinely white! 

Come, Lady of the Lilies; blaunch to snow 
My soul through sacred woe! 

Come thou, through whom I hold in memory 
Moonlit Gethsemani: 

Come, make a vesper silence round my ways, 
And mortify my days: 

O Sorrow! come, through whom alone I keep 
Safe from the fatal sleep: 


75 


10 


15 


20 


25 


THE DAY AFTER CHRISTMAS 451 


Through whom I count the world a barren loss 
And beautiful the Cross: 

Come, Sorrow! lest in surging joy I drown, 
‘To lose both Cross and Crown. 30 


) 


JOYCE KILMER 
1886—1918 


Joyce Kilmer, convert, teacher, journalist, soldier, and poet, was 
born in New Jersey in 1886. Obtaining his early education in the 
public schools, he attended first Rutgers College and later Columbia 
University, from which he graduated in 1906. 

After graduation he engaged in a variety of pursuits, seeking an 
outlet for the talents with which he was richly endowed, but unfort- 
unately his death occurred before he had had time to find himself. 

His entrance into the Church helped him somewhat to focus his 
gift of poetry and brought him the degree of concentration necessary 
for the sustained flights of imagery with which his verse is replete. 
But his life was all too short for full development. The war, into 
which he plunged with the fervor characteristic of everything he 
undertook, cut short a career which would, in all likelihood, have 
ripened into one of high distinction. 

He produced in all three volumes of verse, Summer of Love, Trees 
and Other Poems, and Main Street and Other Poems, and one vol- 
ume of essays, The Circus and Other Essays. 


THE DAY AFTER CHRISTMAS! 


F COURSE, people still ride on the elevated railways. 

But not the people who used to be taken over by their 

mothers from Jersey City on the Cortlandt Street Ferry 
about once every month, and then up Sixth Avenue by.the ele- 
vated en route for the shops. ‘These people now know the swift 
and monotonous tube train instead of the rakish ferryboat, the 
dull subway instead of the stimulating elevated railway. And 
even if they knelt upon the seats of the subway car, their rubbers 
projecting into the aisles and their faces pressed against the win- 
dows, they would see only blank walls and dismal stations instead 
of other people’s Christmas trees. 


1Reprinted from The Circus and Other Essays by permission of, and arrange- 
ment with, the George H. Doran Company, owners of the copyright. 


452 JOYCE KILMER 


These evanescent bits of glory lent special delight to aérial 
journeyings for weeks after Christmas. For, in defiance of the 
Twelfth Night convention, certain citizens were wont to keep 
their Christmas trees in place until February. And, in the 
opinion of the tenants of the third stories of the tenements (apart- 
ment houses is the more courteous word) which bordered the 
elevated, the place of the Christmas tree was close up against the 
front window, where all the world could enjoy its green and gold 
and red. 

Like nearly all genuine vulgar customs (vulgar is used in its 
most honorable sense) this habit of showing the public the home’s 
chief splendor was (or is, for undoubtedly firs dressed for holiday 
still brighten some lower Sixth Avenue windows) based on gen- 
erous courtesy. It was not possible for Mr. Tenement to keep 
open flat, so to speak, at Christmas time; to summon all Sixth 
Avenue in to partake of a bowl of wassail that steamed upon his 
gas range. But he performed all the hospitality that his ungentle 
residence allowed; he placed his bit of greenwood with its card- 
board angel, its red paper bells, and its strings of tinsel, where 
it would give to the greatest possible number the same delight 
that it gave to its owner. 

It is, you observe, in your own psychological way, the Rogers 
Group principle. Your grandmother put “Going for the Cows,” 
you remember, on the marble top of the walnut table by the win- 
dow in the front parlor. The Nottingham lace curtains were 
parted just above the head of the boy who was urging the dog 
after the woodchuck. And everybody who went up or down 
Maple Avenue got a good view of that masterpiece of realism. 
Therein your grandmother showed truer courtesy than did you 
when you put Rodin’s ‘‘Le Baiser’’ in that niche above the second 
landing of your stairway. 

The same quality of almost quixotic generosity is suggested by 
the composition of the oldfashioned holly wreaths, which hung in 
the windows, showed to passers-by lustrous green leaves and scar- 
let berries, and to those who hung them only a circlet of pale 
stems and wire. Even the lithographers maintain this courteous 
tradition; they stamp their cardboard holly wreaths on only one 
side. And this is the side which is to face the street. 

Well, these fenestral firs and hollies exist, and they are among 


THE DAY AFTER CHRISTMAS 453 


the numerous joys of the days that follow Christmas. These post- 
Christmas days shine with a light softer, but perhaps more com- 
fortable, than that of the great feast itself. 

Particularly is this true of the first day after Christmas—espe- 
cially when that day is Sunday. In England, of course, as in the 
time of the late Samuel Pickwick, Esq., who brought about the 
renascence of Christmas, this is called Boxing Day, not because 
it is the occasion of fistic counters, but because it is the time ap- 
pointed for the distribution of those more or less spontaneous 
expressions of good will which are called Christmas boxes. Its 
more orthodox title is Saint Stephen’s Day; it is, you know, the 
day on which the illustrious King Wenceslaus, with the assistance 
of his page, did his noble almoning. Says the old carol: 


Good King Wenceslaus looked out 
On the feast of Stephen, 

When the snow lay round about, 
Deep, and crisp, and even; 

Brightly shone the moon that night, 
‘Though the frost was cruel; 

When a poor man came in sight, 
Gathering winter fuel. 


“Hither, page, and stand by me, 
See thou dost it telling 
Yonder peasant, who is he, 
Where and what his dwelling?” 
“Sire, he lives a good league hence, 
Underneath the mountain, 
Over by the forest fence, 
By Saint Agnes fountain.” 


“Bring me flesh and bring me wine, 
Bring me pine logs hither; 

Thou and I will see him dine, 
When we bear them thither.” 

Page and monarch forth they went 
Forth they went together 

Through the night wind’s wild lament 
And the wintry weather. 


We are not old English Kings, so instead of having our page 
bring flesh and wine to the poor man on Saint Stephen’s Day, we 
give a dollar to the youth from the still vexed Bermuthes who 


4.54 JOYCE KILMER 


chaperons the elevator in our apartment house, and for weeks 
before Christmas we affix to the flaps of the envelopes containing 
our letters little stamps bearing libelous caricatures of Saint 
Nicholas of Bari. ‘Theoretically this last precess provides a 
modicum of Christmas cheer for certain carefully selected and. 
organized poor people. 

However this may be, the fact remains that the day after 
Christmas is a very good day, indeed. ‘The excitement of giving 
and receiving has passed away; there remains the quieter joy of 
contemplation. And since this year the day after Christmas is 
Sunday, this contemplation will not be disturbed by the arrival of 
the postman, who, a relentless bill-bringer, is, like the Greeks, to 
be feared even when bearing gifts. 

And, in spite of the remarks of every humorist who ever bcr- 
rowed from his mother-in-law two cents to put on an envelope 
which should carry a joke about her to an editor, this post-Christ- 
mas meditation nearly always is pleasant. It is assisted by the 
consumption of wife-bestowed cigars, which (again despite the 
humorists!) are better than those a man buys for himself. It is 
a pleasant meditation, for its subjects are things given and things 
received, good deeds done and good deeds experienced. 

It also contains, this day-after-Christmas feeling, a quality of 
reconciliation. Not of reconciliation with ancient enemies—this 
was all orthodoxly attended to on Christmas Eve—but of recon- 
ciliation with affairs, of readjustment. 

On Christmas Day there may have been some slight disappoint- 
ment, some fly in the ointment, or, worse still, in the punch. For- 
getting for a moment that you were just now pictured smoking 
cigars presented to you by your wife, let us consider you to be, as 
you probably are, a young woman of some eighteen summers and 
perhaps an equal number of winters. It is the day after Christ- 
mas; it is (although you are unaware of the fact) Saint Stephen’s 
Day. Yesterday, although you endeavored to conceal the fact, 
only revealing it in the unnecessary viciousness with which you 
scrubbed the remains of a red and white striped candy basket from 
the countenance of your infant brother—yesterday, I repeat, you 
were annoyed. And the cause of your annoyance was that you 
received from the amorous Theophilus a paltry dozen, instead of 
twenty-four or thirty-six, American Beauties. Now, however, 


THE DAY AFTER CHRISTMAS 456 


during your post-Christmas meditation, your annoyance is swept 
away by the refreshing thought that Theophilus will now have 
twelve or twenty-four dollars more to invest in that extraordinary 
solitaire diamond ring with which he purposes to decorate your 
not too reluctant hand as soon as people begin to see through your 
bluff of not being engaged. This thought cheers you consider- 
ably, and you dreamily give the aforesaid infant brother permis- 
sion to consume a barley sugar elephant, which makes him very 
unwell. 

Or, let us, on the other hand, suppose that you, who are now 
reading this inquiry into the theory of motives and ideas, are 
that infant brother himself. Your age, we will say, is three, and 
you are, we regret to say, somewhat sticky. 

Nevertheless, your frame of mind is, on the whole, more satis- 
factory than it was yesterday. You had in all confidence re- 
quested Santa Claus to bring you a large live baboon. Instead, 
he brought you a small tin monkey on a stick. 

This was a genuine disappointment, as poignantly felt as will 
be any more obvious tragedy of your adult years. But, like all 
sorrows of childhood, it had the blessed quality of brevity. Now, 
on the day after Christmas, you contemplate with favor your tin 
monkey. One of his legs is broken, but he has come off his 
stick, and is therefore the more agreeable companion. Your 
father’s apology for Santa Claus—to the effect that the baboon 
of your desire would have walked off with your stockings if he 
had been placed in them—seems reasonable. And there is manna 
for your soul in the thought that your father will take you to the 
Bronx Zoo this afternoon, and that you then can show your tin 
monkey to the baboon that lives there. 

This peaceful meditation is one of the most delightfully com- 
fortable features of the day after Christmas. This day has not 
the concentrated excitement of Christmas. It is, I think, the most 
restful day in the year. It is not marked, like January 2, with the 
shock of receiving bills and the strain of keeping new resolutions. 
It is a delightfully lazy day, a sort of sublimated Sunday after- 
noon. 

And one conclusion which you should draw from your St. 
Stephen’s Day meditation is that the nobility of Christmas tradi- 
tions and customs is proved by their surviving the most unfavor- 


456 JOYCE KILMER 


able, even absurd, conditions of life. It was not difficult for the 
Puritans to destroy the Maypole; its gay garlands never rose 
from the dust into which their iron heels trod them. But the 
Christmas tree—which even more than the Maypole was an idola- 
trous abomination to those of our forefathers who turned “‘the 
sword of the Lord and of Gideon” against the primitive red citi- 
zens of New England—the Christmas tree blooms with new 
splendor every year. It is set up even in the conventicles and 
New Salems which the Pilgrims established, and as its green 
branches glow with their precious freight of scarlet and gold, 
around it dance—tango, in fact——the descendants of John Alden 
and Priscilla Mullens. | 

But the Christmas tree and its attendant glories have survived 
an assault sterner than that of the Puritans. They are healthily 
surviving modern metropolitan conditions—the deadly foe of 
many gracious things. And the mere fact of survival is itself 
beautiful. It is very fine, of course, for Santa Claus to clamber 
down the broad chimney of a great farmhouse. But it is really 
noble of him to penetrate the mysterious smokestacks of a New 
York building, and, making some subtle use, I suppose, of the 
steam radiator, to visit every apartment which has its complement 
of childhood. It is admirable for a country child to believe in 
Santa Claus; but how much more admirable is the faith of the 
city child, the faith which stands the shock of the imitation Santa 
Clauses who strut about the department stores and beg at every 
corner. 

These things, I said, are natural fruits of after-Christmas 
meditations. And the Christmas tree remains—although the gifts 
that surrounded it have been taken away, it is a pleasanter sight 
than it was yesterday, because it is already a beautiful old friend, a 
friend to whom we are grateful. It does not look ridiculous be- 
cause its great day is gone, as, for example, a firecracker looks 
ridiculous on July 5. For Christmas is more than a day, it is a 
season, of which December 25 is only the commencement. And as 
the Christmas tree seems pleasanter and more friendly when some 
of its needles have formed little green aromatic heaps on the car- 
pet, and when the china angel and two or three of the red glass 
balls have been taken down for the baby to play with—so does the 
Christmas season seem pleasanter and more friendly when its 


MAIN STREET 457 


first great feast and pageant has come to its joyous close and be- 
come a part of time’s rich treasury of golden days. 


MAIN STREET’ 
(FOR S. M. L.) 


I xk to look at the blossomy track of the moon upon the sea, 
But it isn’t half so fine a sight as Main Street used to be 

When it all was covered over with a couple of feet of snow, 
And over the crisp and radiant road the ringing sleighs would go. 


Now, Main Street bordered with autumn leaves, it was a pleasant 
thing, 5 

And its gutters were gay with dandelions early in the Spring; 

I like to think of it white with frost or dusty in the heat, 

Because I think it is humaner than any other street. 


A city street that is busy and wide is ground by a thousand wheels, 

And a burden of traffic on its breast is all it ever feels: IO 

It is dully conscious of weight and speed and of work that never 
ends, 

But it cannot be human like Main Street, and recognize its friends. 


‘There were only about a hundred teams on Main Street in a day, 

And twenty or thirty people, I guess, and some children out to 
play. 

And there wasn’t a wagon or buggy, or a man ora girl or boy 15 

That Main Street didn’t remember, and somehow seem to enjoy. 


The truck and the motor and trolley car and the elevated train 

They make the weary city street reverberate with pain: 

But there is yet an echo left deep down within my heart 

Of the music the Main Street cobblestones made beneath a but- 
cher’s cart. 20 


1Reprinted from Main Street and Other Poems by permission of, and arrange- 
ment with, the George H. Doran Company, owners of the copyright. 


458 JOYCE KILMER 


God be thanked for the Milky Way that runs across the sky, 
That’s the path that my feet would tread whenever I have to die. 
Some folks call it a Silver Sword, and some a Pearly Crown, 
But the only thing I think it is, is Main Street Heaventown. 


TREES! 
(TO MRS. HENRY MILLS ALDEN) 
I THINK that I shall never see 


A poem lovely as a tree. 


A tree whose hungry mouth is prest 
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast 


A tree that looks at God all day, 5 
And lifts her leafy arms to pray; 


A tree that may in Summer wear 
A nest of robins in her hair; 


Upon whose bosom snow has lain; 
Who ultimately lives with rain. 10 


Poems are made by fools like me, 
But only God can make a tree. 


1Reprinted from Trees and Other Poems by permission of, and arrangement 
with, the George H. Doran Company, owners of the copyright. 


INDEX TO AUTHORS, TITLES, AND 
FIRST LINES OF POEMS 








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INDEX TO AUTHORS 


BANIM, MICHAEL AND JOHN 
BLUNT, WILFRED SCAWEN 
Bo._ton, EDMUND 

CHAUCER, GEOFFREY é 
GGNSTABLES TIENRY) oaic' ss 
CRASHAW, RICHARD . . 
DAVENANT, WILLIAM. . 
De VERE, AUBREY... 
Dicpy, KENELM HENRY . 
Dowson, ERNEST CHRISTOPHER 
DRYDEN, JOHN , : 
DUNBAR, WILLIAM Monee 
EGAN, Maurice FRANCIS 
FABER, FREDERICK WILLIAM 
GUINEY, LouIsE IMOGEN 
HABINGTON, WILLIAM 
TEAWES DOTEPHEN,  )..6¢5 0) 65, 
HENRYSON, ROBERT . . 
HOPKINS, GERARD MANLEY 
WORNSON, LIONEL 4) 3 )e jy. 
KILMER, JOYCE Bb ie 
IINGARD, | JOHN ¥.0 10s) lec fe!) 


LYDGATE, JOHN POE RANEY 
DICCARTHY..' }OSTIN hiiai an eus 
MAaAnony, FRANCIS SYLVESTER 
Matory, THOMAS. . 5 


MANGAN, JAMES CLARENCE ; 
MANNING, Henry EpwarpD . 
MASSINGER, PHILLIP. . 

MIB NELUW IA RICE iis) (Co re) 
IMIOORE, OL HOMAS (9.)'0) Ye, 5 
More, THOMAS 3 gos 
NEWMAN, JOHN HENRY ral Ghibs 
OccLEVE, IHOMAS eS 
PATMORE, COVENTRY . . .© 
POPE AeA LEANDER: OMe) ats ys 
PROCTER, ADELAIDE ANNE . 
RANDALL, JAMES RYDER . . 


IVAN. ABRAMO R/S st cic 
SIRLOY 1 DAMES UY \echhor lst is 
SOUTHWELL, ROBERT . . . 


SPALDING, JOHN LANCASTER . 
STODDARD, CHARLES WARREN 
TApBB, JOHN BANISTER. . . 
THOMPSON, FRANCIS . .. . 
ULLATHORNE, WILLIAM. . 
WISEMAN, NICHOLAS . . . 


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shniis (yest oH ei ah nt eth beta otha te 210 
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INDEX TO TITLES 


Angel in the House, From The . 

Apologia Pro Vita Sua, From 

Autobiography, From (WILLIAM ULLATHORNE) | 

Ave Marie Bells AUT Rei as ag Oak 

Barnfloor and Winepress 

Before the Cloister 

Bells of San Gabriel . 

Benedictio Domini 

Bird, Let Loose, The . 

Birthday, The. . 

Bloody Sark, The . 

Books . 

Breton Afternoon : 

Britannia Rediviva ft 

Broad Stone of Honour, From The 

Burning Babe, The : 

Canadian Boat Song, A . 

Cardinal Manning 

Carthusians : 

Child Jesus to Mary the Rose, ’ The 

Child My Choice, A ; 

Christ’s Childhood 

Christ in the Universe 

Christmas 

Cleansing Fires 

Conquered Banner, The . : 

Corymbus for Autumn, A 

Crucifixion, The A 

Darkness, The ae 

Day After Christmas, The 

Death of Our Lady, The 

Description of Castara, The 

Dialogue, A. 

Dialogue of Comfort Against Tribulation, From A 

Dies Irae, Dies Illa Arias ot bh ate8 

Dread of Height, The 

Easter Guest, The 

Ellen Bawn . 

Essay on Man, From An 

Everyman . ; 

Example of Virtue, From The . 

Excusation of the Auctor, The . 

Extreme Unction ‘ 

Fabiola, From. . s 

Five Carols for Christmastide : 

Flaming Heart, The . 

Fortune’s Falsehood A 

Geraldine’s Daughter, The 4 

Good Thief, The . CHG AA UN Ten A eM 

Crossl B ne A EEN Oi Raa Angra Ce 
462 


INDEX TO TITLES 


Habit of Perfection, The 

Heaven Haven. . x 
Hind and the Panther, From: The : 
Historical Sketches, From 

History of England, From 
Home. : 

Holy Angels, che! 

Hope . ; 

Hora Novissima : 

Hound of Heaven, The 

How Shall I Build 

Human Life 

Humiliation ‘ 

Hymn to Saint Teresa, A 

“I Am the Way” . 

Idea of a University, From The 
alt lo Were! Dead”. 
Impenitentia Ultima 

In Memcriam . 

Kings, The 

Kyrie Eleison s 

Legend, A (Procter) . 

Legend, A (Ryan) 

Legend of Provence, A 

Le Morte d’Arthur, From 

Life Is But Loss 

Little Jesus 

Look Home . 

Love and Poetry 

Lucis Creator Optime 

Main Street. 

March of the Deathless Dead 
Mary Magdalene’s Complaint . 
Maryland, My Maryland . 
Merle and the pier n eee) The 
NViessialy.) lic lies 

Mistletoe, The . 

Viv Beads’. '. 

My Dark Rosaleen s : 
My Lady Nature and Her Daughters ‘ 
My Neighbor 5 : 
Nativity of Christ, The 

New Year’s Day 

Non Nobis Domine ; 

Nox Nocti Indicat Scientiam 

Nuns of the Henne Adoration 
SUG. banE eA sate 
Ode on St. Cecilia’s Day . 

Ode to Jerusalem . : 

Of the Blessed Sacrament . 

Oh, Teach Me to Love Thee 

On the Way to Church 

Our Daily Bread . . 

Our Lady of the nue 

Palinode, A SORE CNVANN, Nittele Witter site 
Peace to the Dead : SAREE MeN ats Al ole 
Pillar of the Cloud, The . ; 

Portraits of the Sixties, From 


464 INDEX TO TITLES 


Praise 

Queen, The 4 : 
Queen of the Seasons, The ; 
Renouncement : 

Resurgam . 

Right Must Win, The 

Rosa Mystica i y 
Saint Francis and Perfect Joy ; 
Saint Francis Endeth His Sermon . 
Saint Mary Siang or the Mia 
Saint Peter . 

Sancho Sanchez 

Seconde Nonnes Tale, The 
Sensitiveness . oe is 

Shandon Bells, The 

Song (DAVENANT) 

Song (SHIRLEY)  . 

Song for St. Cecilia’s Day, 1687, A 
Song of the Meets . 
Spring . ; 

Starlight Night, “The Ni 

Steps to the Ae From 
Stigmata 

Stolen Sheep, The 

Summum Bonum 

Thankfulness 4 

Those Evening Bells” 

Times Go by Turns 

To Castara Praying . 

‘Pol Cu ping y. ‘ 

To Morfydd Desde 

To My Godchild—Francis M. W. M. 
To the Blessed Sacrament 

To the Body . 

To the Dead Cardinal of Westminster 
To the Name above Every Name 
To Our Blessed aaa 2 
Toys, The 

Trees 

Tributes of Honour to Chaucer , 
Turf Shall Be My Micncacy Shrine, The 
Two Faiths A ; 
Universal Prayer, The ; : 
Upon Cupid’s Death and Burial 
Utopia, From . mi 2 
Valentine to a Little Girl 
Victor-Victim . 

Virgin-Martyr, From The 

Waiting for the Morning 

What Joy to Live . ‘ 
Why the Robin’s Breast Is Red 
Wild Ride, The . , 
Wiles of Maginnis, From The ¥ 
Wind and Wave . ’ : 
Wisdom. . 

Woman of Three Cows, The 


INDEX TO FIRST LINES 


A beauty all stainless, a pearl of a maiden 

A man said unto his Angel . 
All is divine 

“And now, my clerks, who go in fur or feather” 
Angels and Thrones and holy Powers 
Another biossom blooms for thee 

A prophet sat in the Tempie gate 
As I in hoary winter’s night stood shivering i in the snow 
As withereth the primrose by the river 

At dawn, the joyful choir of bells ; 
Awake, my St. John! leave all meaner things 


Before my light BoC out forever if God should give me a ‘choice of 


graces. 

Behold the father is his daughter’s s son 
Blessed Saint Francis, in the winter time 
By force I live, in will I wish to die Q 
Calm, sad, secure; behind high convent walls 
Check thy forward thoughts! and know 
Creation’s and Creator’s crowning good 
Cupid’s dead! Who would not die 

Dear Mother! from the sacred cell 
Descend, ye Nine! descend, and sing 
Elected silence, sing to me 


Ellen Bawn, O Ellen Bawn, you darling, darling dear, » you 


Faintly as tolls the evening chime . 
Father of all! in every age. . 

Father of Lights, by whom each day 

From harmony, from heavenly harmony . 
Furl that banner, for ’tis weary 

Gather the sacred dust 

Give us our daily Bread 

Hail, sister springs 

Hearken my chant, ’tis ‘ 

Hear’st thou, my soul, what serious ; things 


Here, where the breath of the Se a di floats through the sun- 


stained air . 
He walked alone beside the lonely sea : 
How much they wrong thee, gentle Hope! who say 
How shall I build my temple to the Lord 
I am the original of man’s creation 
“Tf I were dead, you’d sometimes say, ‘Poor child!’ y 
I fled him, down the nights and down the ae 
If thou, like Zacheus, wouldst see 
I have been honour’d and es 1 9 
I have desired to go. . a eens 
I hear in my heart, I hear in its ominous ; pulses 


465 


466 INDEX TO FIRST LINES 


I learned his greatness first at Lavington 

I like to look at the blossomy track of the moon upon the sea 
I must not think of thee; and, tired “he wea 

In joy, in pain, in sorrow 

In May, as that Aurora did upspring 

In Paschal feast, that end of ancient rite 

In that, O Queen of Queens, thy birth was free 

In the wrath of the lips that assail us 

{n worldly merriments lurketh much misery . 

I saw Castara pray, and from the sky RCT ee 
Ising the Name which none can say’... 2. 2) 4) 
I think that I shall never see 

I wage no war, yet peace I none enjoy 

I walk down the Valley of Silence 

I will not perturbate . SPACES UT oN SPER ae ee 
Jerusalem, Jerusalem. . 211), ANT ESE ORRIN ater OPIN Rist 
Ladies, well I deem, delight | 

Lead, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom 

Let folly praise that fancy loves 

Let thy gold be cast in the furnace 

Like the violet, which alone 

Little Jesus, wast Thou shy 

Little maiden, dost thou pine 

Look at the stars! Lo, look up at the skies 

Love, thou art absolute sole lord 

Master of spirits! hear me: King of souls! 

Much malice, mingled with a little wit 

My Fader above, beholdyinge the mekenesse 

My God, I thank Thee Who hast made . . 

My little son, who looked from it hilton eyes 

My neighbor as myself to love : 

Nimble boy! in thy warm flight 

No marble statue, nor high 

Not the Circean wine 

Nothing is so beautiful as spring ; 

O flower of flowers, our Lady of the May! 

O fly, my soul! what hangs upon 

Oh, it is hard to work for God 

Oh, man’s capacity 

Oh pray for me!—thou know’st what prayer I need! 

Oh, teach me to love Thee, to feel what Thou art 

O my Dark Rosaleen . 

Our vows are heard betimes! and Heaven takes ¢ care 

O woman of Three Cows, agragh! 

Peace to the dead; though the skies are chill 

Praise is devotion fit for mighty minds 

Retired thoughts enjoy their own delights . 

Rise, Heir of fresh Eternity ‘ 

Rise, thou best and brightest morning! ! 

Rock of the Rock! As He the Light of Light . . 

Sad is our youth, for it is ever going . 

Sancho Sanchez lay a-dying in the house of “Mariquita 
Sing Bethlehem! Sing Bethlehem! 5.) Wie Eee Mi 
Sith my life from life is parted Ig AE TT Ys AP 
Sorrow,.(O sister, Sorrow, QO) mine .QWwa) Tiwi) eens 
Sweet blessed beads! I would not part 

Teach me, my God to bear my cross 


INDEX TO FIRST LINES 


The bird, let loose in eastern skies 
The despot’s heel is on thy shore 
The glories of our blood and state . . 
The lights extinguished, by the hearth I leant 

The lopped tree in time may grow again : 

The Monk was preaching: strong his earnest word 
The Ox he openeth wide the Doore 

The rose is a mystery—where it is found 

The Saviour, bowed beneath His cross 

The turf shall be my fragrant shrine 

The wedded light and heat 

There is one I know. I see her sometimes pass 
They are at rest : ‘ 

Thine was the corn and the wine . 

This hinder year I have been told 

This labouring, vast, Tellurian galleon 

This mayden, bright Cecilie, as hir lyf seith 

Those evening bells, those evening bells 

Thou art sleeping, brother, sleeping 

Thou art the Way , 

Thou who on Sin’s wages starvest 

Through what long heaviness, assayed in what strange fire 
Till twelve years’, age how Christ His childhood spent 
Time was, I shrank from what was right 5 
To heroism and _ holiness 

Unto all Poetes I do me excuse . 

Upon the eyes, the lips, the feet 

Vital spark of heavenly flame 

Waiting on Him who knows us and our need 

Weep, living things, of life the mother dies . 

What measure Fate to him shall mete 

What’s that which Heaven to man endears . 

Well- meaning readers! you that come as friends 
When e’er goes forth Thy dread command 

When I survey the bright . : 

When Thee, O holy sacrificed Lamb . 

Where’er I roam in this fair, English land 

Why dost thou seem to boast, Saree rious sun 
With deep affection : 

With heart as trembling. as the leaf ‘of. asp 

With this ambiguous earth : Sang 
Without, the sullen noises of the street . 

Would, to the glory of thine eyes might change 

Ye nymphs of Solyma! begin the song 





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